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A TREASURY OF 
CANADIAN VERSE 



For English natures, freemen, friends, 
Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

— Love thou thy Land. 




NEW YORK: E. P. BUTTON & CO. 

LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO. 

1 900 



"R3 



All rights reserved 



T 



THIS ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH-CANADIAN VERSE 

IS INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION 

TO 

LOUIS FRECHETTE 

LL.D., F.R.S. CAN. 

C.M.G. 

THE LaMARTINE OF CANADA 



PREFACE 

TO one opening this book for the first time, it may 
be permissible to say that the verse included 
in the volume does not treat solely nor chiefly of 
Canadian themes. While Canadian environment and 
life necessarily supply the note of inspiration and 
impart its timbre and accent, the thought and 
emotion are of wide range, and seek response in the 
universal heart. 

The practical energies of the Canadian people are 
abundantly attested by extensive systems of railways 
and canals, a wide commerce, systems of free public 
education in the several provinces and territories, 
liberal facilities for the higher education of men and 
women, and an enterprising and influential press. 
Thirty-two years have passed since the organization 
of the Dominion of Canada. These years have 
witnessed great progress in civil and social institu- 
tions, and no unworthy beginning of an adequate 
development of the illimitable material resources of 
Canada's vast domain. It is noteworthy, as marking 
the quality of life of the people, that from the earliest 
settlement of the several provinces there have not 
been wanting public evidences of the presence of the 
scientific and literary spirit. The latter has expressed 
itself both in prose and verse, and in these recent 
years there is an increased activity in literary pro- 
duction commensurate with the expanding life of 
Canada. 

It has been my purpose to present worthy specimens 
of English-Canadian verse, selected from the entire 
field of our history. Such a collection should be of 



X Preface 

interest, not only to Canadians, hut to all PZnglish- 
speaking peoples. Here are reflected the singular 
loveliness of our evanescent spring, the glow and 
luxuriant life of our hasting summer, the sensuous 
glory of our autumn, and the tingle of our frosty air 
and the white winter's cheer. Every form and aspect 
of natural beauty is, in some degree, caught and ex- 
pressed — sometimes in homely, sometimes in classical 
phrase ; often with striking simplicity, and generally 
with much purity of thought and an authentic note. A 
sane and wholesome spirit is characteristic of the verse, 
and its spiritual quality seems to me to be of a high 
order. The sympathetic reader will notice a marked 
pictorial use of nature in some of the specimens given, 
as well as a sensuous delight in nature itself, depicted, 
as it is, with true feeling and not infrequently with 
an almost flawless art. He will notice also that 
nature is often humanized, and tenderness, love and 
pity, and the subtle problems of man's life and 
existence, are enshrined in original and poetic 
similitudes to the melody of haunting music. Nor 
are there altogether wanting instances of that insight 
and vision which beholds the phenomenal and cosmic 
with rapt wonder as awesome beauty-gleams, radiant 
symbols, or sublime manifestations of the immanent 
and loving One in whom all things consist. Great 
personalities, high achievement, and noble character, 
also, have inspired Canadian song. From the earliest 
to the latest singer, a glowing devotion to native land 
and a loyal and loving reverence for our gracious 
Sovereign are characteristic notes. If it should appear 
that the abundant verse inspired by these latter 
motives is insufficiently represented in this anthology, 
it may suffice to say that such verse is already widely 
known and is not by any means the highest product 
of the Canadian muse. Room has been made for 
the less hackneyed and richer inspirations of our 
poets — the virgin freshness and promise of our 
country ; the life and deeds of men everywhere ; the 



Preface 



XI 



yearnings of the individual soul ; and the aspirations 
of a people after the noblest and the divinest. These, 
with domestic loves, have kindled our singers to 
beautiful expression that demands a wider apprecia- 
tion, as supplying sustenance and stimulus essential 
to fulness of national and imperial life. It will be 
observed that not only in recent verse, but also in 
that of nearly fifty years ago, Canadian poets have 
given expression to Anglo-centric conceptions and 
aspirations, divining with poetic insight the coming 
good. 

While the selections have been carefully made, it 
will be apparent that some verse has been included 
whose chief claim to recognition is found in local and 
popular associations. It should also be said that 
much popular verse has been excluded, in order that 
the volume be kept of usable form and size. It did 
not fall within the plan of this anthology to include 
sacred and devotional lyrics, otherwise not a few 
hymns must have found a place, notably Joseph 
Scriven's "What a Friend we have in Jesus," known 
as widely as the language is spoken. 

The printing together of the selections from any 
author has been advisedly adopted, as affording a 
greater variety and interest than could be secured by 
an abstract or logical classification of the verse of the 
entire volume. The convenience of an alphabetical 
order of authors is apparent, while the dates supplied 
m the Notes afford ample chronology. Here and 
there the reader may find unfilled dates of birth or 
death, or unexpanded initials of names, but all reason- 
able effort has been made to furnish complete and 
trustworthy information. 

I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. Charles C. 
James, M.A., Deputy Minister of Agriculture for 
Ontario, who has given me free access to his valuable 
and extensive collection of the works of Canadian 
poets ; to Mr. James Bain, Jr., of the Toronto Public 
Library, for special facilities for inspecting the 



xii Preface 

excellent collection in his charge ; and to Mr. E. S. 
Caswell, of the publishing house of William Briggs, 
for many courtesies, and specially for aid in procuring 
well-nigh inaccessible materials for examination. To 
the many persons who have so cordially responded 
to letters of inquiry, and whom I may not thank by 
name, I express my acknowledgments. The following 
special works have been of service : Selections from 
Canadian Poets (1864), by Edward Hartley Dewart; 
21ie Canadian Birthday Book (1887), by Seranus ; 
Songs of the Great Dominion (1889), by William 
Douw Lighthall, M.A., and Morgan's Canadian Meji 
and Women of the Tinie. 

Special thanks are rendered to the authors who 
have permitted the use of their poems, and to the 
various publishers for copyright permission. I regret 
that I was unable to secure permission to include any 
poems by Mr. William Wilfred Campbell. Perhaps 
the selections from my own verse should not appear 
in the volume. Their inclusion, it is proper to say, is 
in deference to the wishes of persons of acknowledged 
taste, rather than to any desire of my own. 

A Canadian by birth, education, and life-service, 
as were my father and his father, my mother and her 
mother, I may be pardoned the expression of a feeling 
of national pride that the materials are so abundant 
from which to prepare a representative volume, much 
of whose contents will not suffer by comparison with 
the verse of older countries. I trust that this anthology 
may serve as an open door through which the voices 
of Canadian singers may vibrate yet more widely on 
sympathetic ears both at home and abroad. 

T. H. R. 

Toronto, Canada, 
February. 1900. 



AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS 

The Whitethroat (T. H. R.) . . . . 



PAGE 

I 



Margaret H. Alden— 
Mother's World . 

Joseph Antisell Allen — 
From ' ' Daydreams " 

Grant Allen— 
Only an Insect 

William Talbot Allison— 

"There sat the Women weeping 
The Men of the North . 
Vanishings 

Sophie M. Almon-Hensley— 
Content 
Song 
There is no God . 

Duncan Anderson— 
The Death of Wolfe 
Sport 

Alice M. Ardagh— 
Sic Passim 

Isidore G. Ascher— 
By the Firelight . 



for Thammuz ' 



Samuel Mathewson Baylis- 
In Matabele Land 
The Coureur-de-Bois 

John Wilson Bengough— 
Sir John A. Macdonald . 
Restitution 

Craven Langstroth Betts- 
In Memoriam 
Chaucer 
Pope 



23 
25 

26 
27 

28 
30 
30 



xiv Authors and Selections 



Blanche Bishop— 

The Bride o' the Sun 
Winter P'lowers 
Christmas Morn . 

Edward Blackadder— 
AnnapoHs Royal . 

Jean Blewett— 

The Two Marys . 

She just keeps house for me 

At Quebec 

John Breakenridge — 
The Troubadour . 

John Henry Brown — 

The Parliament of Man . 
A Sunset . 

Edward Burrough Brownlow- 
The Whippoorwill 
The Sonnet 



George Frederick Cameron- 
The Golden Text . 
Is there a God? . 
On Tiptoe 
What matters it? . 

Bliss Carman- 
Low Tide on Grand Pr6 
The Gravedigger 
The Crimson House 
Hack and Hew 
Phillips Brooks 
The White Gull . 

Amos Henry Chandler— 
When Dora died . 

Edward J. Chapman— 
A Summer Night 

Annie Rothwell Christie— 
The Woman's Part 
After the Battle . 
Welcome Home 

George Herbert Clarke— 
Skater and Wolves 
To a Butterfly 
Resentment 
Ecclesiastes 
A Child's Evening Hymn 



Authors and Selections 



XV 



Hugh Cochran— 

Ideal 

Hereward K. Cockin— 
The Death of Burnaby , 

Sara Jeanette Duncan Cotes— 

The Poet .... 

Isabella Valancy Crawford — 
The Master-Builder 
The Axe of the Pioneer . 
Froffi "The Helot" 

The Sword .... 

"These Three" .... 

Francis Blake Crofton— 

The Battle-Call of Anti-Christ . 

John Allister Currie — 

My Mother .... 

Margaret Gill Currie — 

By the St John .... 

Sarah Anne Curzon— 

Visit of the Prince of Wales to Laura Secord 
Invocation to Rain 



70 
70 
72 

73 
73 
74 
76 

77 
78 
8i 
81 



Nicholas Flood Davin— 
From " Eos" 

A. B. De Mille— 
The Ice King 
Ballad 

James De Mille— 

From " Behind the Veil " 

Edward Hartley Dewart— 
Shadows on the Curtain 
On the Ottawa 

Frederick Augustus Dixon— 
A Feather's Message 
Hinc Illae Lachrymas 

William Henry Drummond— 
The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 

John Hunter Duvar— 

John A'Var's Last Lay . 
The Minnesingers Lied . 
How Balthazar the King went down into Egypt 



87 

89 
91 

92 

96 
97 

98 
99 



104 
106 
107 



xvi Authors and Selections 



Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton— 

The Egyptian Lotus ..... log 

Purple Asters . . . . , .no 

Deepening the Channel . . . . . ni 

The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs . .112 

The Meadow Lands . . . . .113 

My Purest Longings spring . . . .114 

I watch the Ships . . , . .114 

James David Edgar— 

This Canada of Ours . , . . . 1 16 



Constance Fairbanks — 

The Junction . . . . . .117 

Halifax . . . . . . .117 

Those far-off fields . . . . .118 

Joseph Kearney Foran— 

The Aurora Borealis . . . . .118 

William Henry Fuller— 

A Song of the Sea ..... 120 



Alexander Rae Garvie— 

From " Phantasy " ..... 121 

H 

Pierce Stevens Hamilton— 

From "The Heroine of St John .... 123 

S. Frances Harrison— 

Villanelle ....... 126 

Chateau Papineau . . . . .127 

September . . , . . .128 

November . . . , . .128 

Theodore Arnold Haultain— 

Beauty ....... 129 

Charles Heavysege— 

Magnanimous and Mean . . . .131 

Night ....... 132 

The Coming of the Morn .... 132 

The Mystery of Doom ..... 133 

John Frederic Herein— 

Simon ....... 133 

The Diver ...... 137 



Authors and Selections 



XVll 



Across the Dykes 
The Sonnet 

Annie Campbell Huestis— 
Gentle- Breath 
The Little White Sun . 
Twenty-Old and Seven-Wild 

Tames C. Hodgins— 
Once More 
A Greek Reverie . 

Joseph Howe— 

The Flag of Old England 
The Deserted Nest 

William Edward Hunt — 
Golden-Rod 
The Sea's Influence 
The Passing of Summer . 

Richard Huntington— 
Sunrise on the Tusket 
Louisburg 



137 
138 



138 
139 
140 



14s 
146 



147 
148 



141 
142 
142 

142 
144 



J 

Charles Edwin Jakeway— 
An Unfinished Prophecy 

E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) 
The Song my Paddle sings 
At Husking Time 
Shadovi^ River 
Brier 
Prairie Greyhounds 



149 



155 
156 
157 
158 
159 



Robert Kirkland Kernighan— 
The Song of the Thaw . 
Peepy is not dead . ' * ' 

William Kirby — 

The Marquis of Lome's visit to the North-West 

At Spencer Grange 

From ' ' The Sparrows . , \ ' 

Matthew Richey Knight— 
Jacques Cartier 

Sovereign Moments . ' ' ' 

The Mercy of God . \ ' ' 



160 
161 

162 
163 
163 

166 
167 
167 



xviii Authors and Selections 



Archibald Lampman— 
The Railway Station 
Outlook . 
Among the Millet 
The Loons 
The Sun Cup 
After Rain 
June 

September 
The Goal of Life 

Mary Jane Katzmann Lawson- 
The Face in the Cathedral 

Sophia V. Gilbert Lee — 
The Brook 

Lily Alice Lefevre— 
Imprisoned 
Inspiration 

R. E. MULLINS Leprohon— 
The Huron Chiefs Daughter 

William Douw Lighthall— 
The Artist's Prayer 
The Sweet Star . 
My Native Land . 

Stuart Livingston— 
The Volunteers of '85 
To E. N. L. 
The King's Fool . 
Keats 

Arthur John Lockhart — 
Acadie 

The Waters of Carr 
The Lonely Pine . 

Burton Wellesley Lockhart— 
From " The Retrospect " 
Love and Song 
By the Gaspereau 

John E. Logan— 

The Indian Maid's Lament — 



168 
168 
169 
169 
170 
170 
172 

174 
177 

177 

180 

180 
181 

182 



184 
186 
186 



187 
188 
189 
192 

192 

193 
194 

196 
197 
197 

198 



Agnes Maule Machar— 
William Ewart Gladstone 
Schiller's Dying Vision 
Love and Faith 
A Madonna of the Entry . 



M 



199 
200 
202 
202 



Authors and Selections 



XIX 



Evan MacColl — 

The Child of Promise 
Glenorchy 

Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald— 
A Song of Seasons 

John Macfarlane— 
The Two Angels . 
A Grave in Samoa 
A Midsummer Madrigal . 

Kate Seymour Maclean— 
Ballad of the Mad Ladye 
Bird Song 

Elizabeth S. Macleod— 
Alexander Mackenzie 

A. D. Macneill— 
TheSea-Gull 

Donald M'Caig— 
The Tramp 

James M 'Carroll — 
A Royal Race 

Dawn .... 

The Grey Linnet . 

William M'Donnell — 
From " Manita" . 

Bernard M'Evoy — 

A Photograph in a Shop Window 
Revised Proofs 

Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee— 
Our Ladye of the Snow . 

William P. M'Kenzie— 
Moonlight 

Gabrielle .... 
The Mother's Song 
Lullaby Song 

Alexander M'Lachlan— 
Indian Summer 

Bobolink .... 
The Man who rose from Nothing 

John M'Pherson — 
The Mayflower 
In the Woods 

Charles Mair— 

Untamed .... 
The Voice of the Pines 
The Humming Bird 
Innocence .... 



204 
205 



205^ 



206 
207 
208 



208 
210 



213 

215 

216 
216 

217 

218 
218 

219 

224 
224 
225 
226 

227 
229 
230 

231 

232 



233 
234 
236 
236 



XX 



Authors and Selections 



George Martin— 

Shelley . . . . 

To My Canary Bird 

Laleet . . . . 

Helen M. Merrill— 
The Blue Flower 
At Edgewater 
The Promise of Spring 
Sun-Gold 

Susanna Moodie— 
The Maple Tree . 
The Fisherman's Light . 

Mary Morgan— 

" In apprehension, so like a God' 
Charity . . . . 

Life . . . . 

Irene Elder Morton— 
Browning 
Completeness 
My Garden Wall 
In June 

Song of the Pagan Princess 
Song 

Charles Pelham Mulvaney— 
Poppcea . 

George Murray— 
The Thistle 



PAGE 

238 
238 
240 

241 
243 

244 



244 
247 



247 
248 
248 



249 
250 

252 

254 
254 

2S5 
256 



H. M. Nickerson— 
A Recollection 



N 



260 



Cornelius O'Brien— 
St Cecilia 

Thomas O'Hagan— 
Ripened Fruit 
The Song My Mother Sings 



261 



261 
262 



Horatio Gilbert Parker— 
I loved my Art 
It is enough 
Their Waving Hands 



264 
264 
265 



Authors and Selections 



XXI 



Amy Parkinson— 

The Messenger Hours 

Frank L. Pollock— 
Ad Bellonam 
The Trail of Gold 



PAGE 
265 

268 
•269 



Andrew Ramsay— 
Jephtha's Daughter 
I will not tell 
Atkinson's Mill 

Theodore Harding Rand 
The Dragonfly 
Beauty 
Love 

The Hepatica 
"I Am" . 
The Veiled Presence 
The Ghost Flower 
Glory-Roses 
The Carven Shores 

Walter A. Ratcliffe— 
Wanted , 

John Reade— 

Rizpah 

Pictures of Memory (i.-iv. 

In My Heart 

To Louis Frechette 

Kings of Men 

Dominion Day 
Robert Reid— 

Poesie 

A Song of Canada 
Charles George Douglas Roberts- 

A Nocturne of Consecration 

A Nocturne of Spiritual Love 

An Ode for the Canadian Confederacy 

Canadian Streams 

The Silver Thaw 

Epitaph for a Sailor Buried Ashore 

The Train among the Hills 

A Song of Growth 

Sleepy Man 

Night in a down-town Street 

The Falling Leaves 

An Epitaph for a Husbandman 

Origins 

The Wrestler 

Recessional 

Ascription 



270 
271 
272 

273 
276 
277 
277 
278 
279 
280 
280 
281 

282 

283 
285 
286 
288 
288 
289 

290 
290 

292 

29s 
296 
297 

299 
300 
301 
301 
302 
303 
304 
304 
305 
306 

307 
309 



xxll Authors and Selections 



Theodore Roberts — 

The Spears of Kan-Mar .... 309 

Cold ....... 310 

The Men of my Heart's Desire . . . .311 

The Chase ...... 312 

William Carman Roberts— 

History ....... 313 

An Easter Memory ..... 313 

My Comrade Canoe ..... 314 

George John Romanes— 

I ask not for Thy love, O Lord .... 315 

Carroll Ryan— 

From " Malta." ...... 316 



Charles Sangster — 

England and America ..... 318 

A Living Temple ...... 320 

The Illumined Goal ..... 321 

Love's Renewal ...... 321 

'Tis Summer Still ..... 322 

Duncan Campbell Scott — 

The Fifteenth of April ..... 322 

Above St Ir^n^e ...... 323 

Off Riviere Du Loup ..... 325 

The End of the Day . . . . .326 

A Flock of Sheep ...... 326 

Memory ....... 327 

Home Song ...... 328 

Life and Death ...... 329 

Ottawa ....... 329 

Frederick George Scott— 

A Reverie ....... 330 

Easter Island ...... 331 

A Dream of the Prehistoric .... 332 

Dawn ....... 335 

Van Elsen . . . . . -335 

Charles Dawson Shanly — 

The Walker of the Snow . . . .336 

Francis Sherman— 

The Builder ...... 338 

Between the Battles ..... 339 

From " The Prelude" ..... 340 

A Little While before the Fall was done . . 341 

GoLDwiN Smith— 

Flossy to her Mistress ..... 341 



Authors and Selections 



XXI 11 



Lyman C. Smith— 

Canada to Columbia 

From "A Day with Homer" 

William Wye Smith — 

The Canadians on the Nile 

Albert E. Stafford Smythe— 
The Forgotten Poet 
Death the Revealer 

Hiram Ladd Spencer— 
The River 
A Hundred Years to come 

Ezra Hurlburt Stafford — 
Chinook . 
The Strange Vessel 
The last Orison . 

Alexander Charles Stewart— 
From " The Wanderer" . 

Phillijs Stewart— 
Hope 

From " Corydon and Amaryllis' 
From ' ' De Profundis " 

Barry Straton— 
Love's Harvest 
Charity 
America 

Arthur J. Stringer— 
A Song in Autumn 
Beside the Martyr's Memorial 
Canada to England 
Beethoven . 

Alan Sullivan— 

Venice . . , 

The White Canoe 



342 

343 



344 



345 
346 

346 

347 

348 
349 
350 

351 

351 

352 
353 

353 
354 
356 

356 
357 
357 
358 



359 
360 



Bertram Tennyson — 
Gordon 

Edward William Thomson 
A Day- Dream 
The Song-Sparrow 
The Bad Year 

John Stuart Thomson— 
The Vale of Estabelle 
Even-Time 
Late Autumn 



361 

363 
364 
364 

365 
367 



xxlv Authors and Selections 



w 



Francis L. Dominick Waters — 
i^ro»z " The Water Lily " 


. 369 


Arthur Weir 

A Snowshoe Song 

Voyageur Song .... 

The Little Trooper 

Little Miss Blue Eyes 

A Christmas Lullaby 


• 370 
. 372 
. 373 

• 374 
. 37S 


Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald 
The House of the Trees . 
At the Window .... 
To February .... 
The Hay Field .... 


. 376 

• 377 

• 378 


William Henry Withrow— 

October ..... 
Cloud Castles . ... 


• 379 
. 379 


R. Walter Wright— 

Easter Morn .... 
A Still Small Voice 


. 380 
. 381 


G. F. W. 

Sense and Spirit .... 


382 



Eva Rose York — 

I shall not pass this way again 

Pamelia Vining Yule— 
The Beautiful Artist 
Warble thy lays to nie 



382 

384 
386 



Notes of Authors . 
Index of First Lines 



387 

405 



A TREASURY 
OF CANADIAN VERSE 

THE WHITETHROAT 



SHY bird of the silver arrows of song, 
That cleave our Northern air so clear, 
Thy notes prolong, prolong, 

I listen, I hear — 
" I — love — dear — Canada, 
Canada, Canada." 

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir. 
Screen of a swelling patriot heart, 

The copse is all astir 

And echoes thy part ! . . . 

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes 
As the noise of the day dies down ; 

And silence strings her lutes, 
The Whitethroat to crown. . . . 

O bird of the silver arrows of song, 

Shy poet of Canada dear, 
Thy notes prolong, prolong, 

We listen, we hear — 
" I — love — dear — Canada, 

Canada, Canada." 



A Treasury of 

MARGARET H. ALDEN 

MOTHER'S WORLD 

EYES of blue and hair of gold, 
Cheeks all brown with summer tan. 
Lips that much of laughter hold, 
That is mother's little Man. 

Shining curls like chestnut brown, 
Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, 

Sweetest face in all the town. 
That is mother's little Maid. 

Dainty room with snow-white beds, 
Where, like flowers with petals curled, 

Rest in peace two dreaming heads, 
That— is mother's little World ! 



JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN 

From "DAY-DREAMS" 

AH, what if the mind, 
By sense-law confined, 

In time, 'neath this stratum of stars, 
Secretes by her spell 
This fair, wondrous shell 

Self-substanced, till bursting the bars 
Of chrysalis time, 
Free, joyous, sublime. 

She mounts the blue space, winged with light, 
Where, deep in the soul. 
Is mirrored the whole. 

As in a calm lake the pure night ! 



Canadian Verse 3 

And what, if the whole 
Are things of the soul, 

This frame, Earth, bright Moon, garnished Skies, 
If from the great Sun 
Of spirit are spun 

All systems which gravity ties 
To their focal source, 
By a hidden force 

Mysterious, dynamic, unknown — 
A power that controls 
Each orb as it rolls. 

And links to the great central throne ! . . 

When the dew-drops shine. 
On each sunlit line. 

Of gossamer network, on sod 
Of emerald green, 
In the morning's sheen, 

'Tis a miniature sky-work of God. . . . 

Arachne how oft. 
In the twilight soft. 

Seems poised in mid-air ; yet some tie 
Holds spider, moon, mote. 
All known, near, remote. 

From mind to yon azure-domed sky ! 



GRANT ALLEN 
ONLY AN INSECT 



ON the crimson cloth 
Of my study desk 
A lustrous moth 
Poised statuesque. 



A Treasury of 

Of a waxen mould 

Were its light limbs shaped, 
And in scales of gold 

Its body was draped : 
While its luminous wings 

Were netted and veined 
With silvery strings, 

Or golden grained. 
Through whose filmy maze 

In tremulous flight 
Danced quivering rays 

Of the gladsome light. 



On the desk hard by 

A taper burned. 
Towards which the eye 

Of the insect turned. 
In its vague little mind 

A faint desire 
Rose, undefined, 

For the beautiful fire. 
Lightly it spread 

Each silken van ; 
Then away it sped 

For a moment's span. 
And a strange delight 

Lured on its course 
With resistless might 

Towards the central source 
And it followed the spell 

Through an eddying maze. 
Till it fluttered and fell 

In the deadly blaze. 

Ill 

Dazzled and stunned 
By the scalding pain, 



Canadian Verse 

One moment it swooned, 

Then rose again ; 
And again the fire 

Drew it on with its charms 
To a hving pyre 

In its awful arms ; 
And now it Hes 

On the table here 
Before my eyes 

Shrivelled and sere. 



IV 

As I sit and muse 

On its fiery fate, 
What themes abstruse 

Might I meditate ! 
For the pangs that thrilled 

Through that martyred frame 
As its veins were filled 

With the scorching flame, 
A riddle enclose 

That, living or dead, 
In rhyme or in prose. 

No seer has read. 
" But a moth," you cry, 

"Is a thing so small!" 
Ah, yes ; but why 

Should it suffer at all ? 
Why should a sob 

For the vaguest smart 
One moment throb 

Through the tiniest heart ? 
Why in the whole 

Wide universe 
Should a single soul 

Feel that primal curse ? 
Not all the throes 
Of mightiest mind, 



A Treasury of 

Nor the heaviest woes 

Of human kind, 
Are of deeper weight 

In the riddle of things 
Than that insect's fate 

With the mangled wings. 



But if only I 

In my simple song 
Could tell you the Why 

Of that one little wrong, 
I could tell you more 

Than the deepest page 
Of sainthest lore 

Or of wisest sage. 
For never as yet 

In its wordy strife 
Could Philosophy get 

At the import of life ; 
And Theology's saws 

Have still to explain 
The inscrutable cause 

For the being of pain. 
So I somehow fear 

That in spite of both, 
We are baffled here 

By this one singed moth. 



WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON 

"THERE SAT THE WOMEN WEEPING 
FOR THAMMUZ" 

THE days begin to wane, and evening lifts 
Her eyes the sooner towards the vales of sleep 
The yellow leaf upon the night-breeze drifts 
And winter-voices thunder from the deep ; 



Canadian Verse 7 

Thammuz grows pale in death, the Queen of Shades 
Mocks sad-eyed Ishtar and her mourning maids. 

Prostrate along the Babylonish halls, 

On alabaster floors the women moan, 
All unadmired the lilac-tinted walls 

Bespangled wantonly, and sculptured stone ; 
For Thammuz dies ; bereft, the Queen of Love ; 
Melt into tears, O Earth, O Heaven above ! 

Let all the Land between the Rivers sigh. 

And such as ever danced with throbbing veins 

To Ishtar's music, fill the sodden sky. 

With lamentation and most doleful strains. 

Thammuz is dead ; no more the shepherd leads 

His golden flock adown Im's jewelled meads. 

Proud Larsam of Chaldean cities blest. 

Famed for the glories of her sun-god's home, 

Erech, where countless Kings are laid to rest. 
And Eridhu, wet with the salt sea-foam ; — 

Princes and priests and lustrous maidens there 

Sing plaintive hymns to Thammuz, young and fair. 

And out upon Shumir-Accadian plains. 

Beneath the orient night, the shepherd boy 

Blows from his oaten pipe the sweet refrains 
That tell of Ishtar's one-time joy ; 

Ana, lord of the starry realms of space. 

Roams near to earth seeking the warm god's face. 

Yet full-zoned Ishtar will not weep for aye, 
Nor will the land forever saddened be ; 

For Thammuz is not dead, some spring-timeday 
He will appear in greater majesty : 

Chaldean lovers will take heart again, 

The Queen of Love will kiss the sons of men. 



A Treasury of 



THE MEN OF THE NORTH 

FROM out the cold house of the north 
Thor's stalwart children hurtled forth, 
Forsook their sullen seas ; 
Southward the Gothic waggons rolled, 
While bards foretold a realm of gold. 
And fame, and boundless ease. 

Loud rang the shields with sounding blows, 
The furious din of war arose 

Adown the dreary land ; 
But Woden held them in his ken, 
And safely passed the Teuton men 

By every hostile band. 

At length, one day, the host was thrilled 
At that glad cry the foremost shrilled, — 

" The sea ! A southern sea !" 
As breathless stood the northmen there, 
The wind swept through their yellow hair, 

And sang of empery. 

Rome's doom was written in their eyes, 
Fell tumult under sunny skies, 

Death on the Golden Horn : 
Now, by the rood, what southron slaves. 
Or land that any south sea laves. 

Can face the northern born ? 



VANISHINGS 

THE dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn 
Unrolls her faded glories in the fields ; 
Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born, 
The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields, 



Canadian Verse 

For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay — 
The fickle goddess, loaded with delight, 
Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away 
Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight. 

In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies 
Pale in the marble dawn ; we cannot choose, 
But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes 

Brimful of passion all their lustre lose. 

Drear is the morning ; love is gone for aye, 
Love done to death in one bright peerless day. 



SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY 
CONTENT 

I HAVE been wandering where the daisies grow. 
Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw 
Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw 
Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow 
From timothy and yellow buttercup. 
So by their fearless beauty lifted up. 

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will. 
Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep 
Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep 

Over the meadows and adown the hill. 
So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow. 
Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow. 

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet 

To hear the ripple of the bobolink. 

To smell the clover blossom white and pink. 
To feel oneself far from the dusty street, 

From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret 

Of living, and the fever of regret. 



lo A Treasury of 

I have grown younger ; I can scarce believe 
It is the same sad woman full of dreams 
Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems 

I am a child again, and can deceive 

My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one, 
The petals dazzling in the noonday sun. 

Almost with old-time eagerness I try 

My fate, and say : "un peu," a soft " beaucoup," 
Then, lower, " passionement, pas du tout"; 

Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly 

I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch 
The knowing daisy, for he loves me " much." 

I can remember how, in childish days, 

I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall 
Must love me " passionately " or " not at all." 

Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays 
It knows not what, and heedlessly demands 
The best that life can give with outstretched hands 



Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize 
Peace above passion, and the summer Hfe 
Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife 

Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise 
Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold 
Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold. 



SONG 

JOY came in Youth as a humming bird, 
(Sing hey ! for the honey and bloom of life !) 
And it made a home in my summer bower 
With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. 
(Sing hey ! for the blossoms and sweets of life !) 



Canadian Verse ii 

Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, 

(Ah ! hush, hush still, for the dream is short !) 
And I gazed far up to the melting blue 
Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. 
(Ah ! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short !) 



THERE IS NO GOD 

THERE is no God ! If one should stand at noon 
Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight 
plays. 
Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays 
And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon 
Gives back the brightness of the heart of June, 

And he should say : "There is no sun " — the day's 
Fair show still round him, — should we lose the blaze 
And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon ? 

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought, 
''The man is blind ! " and throbs of pitying scorn 
Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind. 

VJofeel, and see, and therefore know, — the morn 
With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought 
Promise of full-grown day. " The man is blind ! " 



DUNCAN ANDERSON 

THE DEATH OF WOLFE. 



BEHIND Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low 
Low burn the beacon fires along the shore ; 
The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home, 
And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are 
o'er. 



12 A Treasury of 

Beneath the raven wing of sable night, 

A Httle band, with martial fire aglow. 
Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on 

Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe. 

Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast. 
Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye ; 

For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand 
Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die. 

And while no ghostly form unveils the fate 
That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave, — 

Love's gifts all laid aside, — he grasps his sword, 
And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the 
grave." 

Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide ; 

And as the keel grates on the rocky shore, 
Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael 

Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's 
roar. 



And had New France no arm to rule the fight, 
Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast ? 

Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife, 

His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's 
rest? 

Deserted by a ribald court and King, — 

Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand, — 

A thousand vampires battening on her blood, — 
And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of 
the land ; — 

Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground, — 
Acadia lost, — of Western Empire shorn, — 

No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes, 
And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm. 



Canadian Verse 13 

Such was New France ; — but in her bosom glowed 
That patriot fire that burned while life was there ; 

Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love, 

Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad 
despair. 

To arms ! Grandsire and striplings seek the field ; 

The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call ; 
Both high and low together ply the spade, 

And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered 
wall. 

And on that morn, when like their mountain mist 
The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height, 

One sentinel stood faithful at his post,- — 

One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight. 

But ere the warning shot could tell the tale, 

The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast ; 

Long may his mother wait to greet her boy ; — 

He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty 
crest. 

One cheer above ! one answering shout below ! 

Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide ; 
Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on. 

And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side. 

The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks, 

The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain, — 
Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood 
From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm- 
tost main. 

Ill 

Hark ! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings ; — 
Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar ; — 

The red line forms ; — revenge in every eye, 

For comrades slain on Montmorenci's blood-stained 
shore. 



14 A Treasury of 

Firm as yon stalwart pines, that phalanx stands, 
Waiting the chief's command to deal the blow, — 

And silent all, save but the mountain pipe 

Yelling forth fierce defiance to the gathering foe. 

And on yon ridge Guienne's fair banners claim 

The spot where empire's sway will prove the prize, 

And where, from hostile ashes kindly blent, 

A nobler form, like wakening Phcenix will arise. 

In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore ; 

From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by 
La Sarre, Roussilon, Languedoc, Beam, and all 

Burning from baffled foe to wrest fresh victory. 

No braver sons, to bear her banners well. 

Or laurels fresh to win, fair France might yield ; 

Oswego won, Fort-William Henry theirs, — 

And noblest still, Ticonderoga's hard-fought field. 

On sweeps that band beneath the rampart wall ; — 
On through the crowded streets and teeming gates ; — 

On, where Guienne has watched since morn the fines. 
Where calm as coming storm the proud invader 
waits. 

IV 

Silent and stern, Montcalm rides on that morn, 
Heedless of warlike shouts, or battle songs ; 

Victor of Carillon ! thy palms may fade, 

And Abraham's plains avenge Fort William Henry's 
wrongs. 

Rank forms on rank, and as the managed hawk 
Strains on its leash to swoop upon the prey, 

So curbs the ardent chief his champing steed, 
And longs to bid his warriors mingle in the fray. 



Canadian Verse 15 

What stays the heart that panted for the strife ? 

Why lags the bold Vaudreuil, when battle calls ? 
Why guard a thousand men our peaceful lines ? 

Why linger Ramesay's guns behind the sheltering 
walls? 

" On with the charge!" he cries, and waves his sword; 

One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell ; 
The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, 

While thundering cannons' roar half drowns the 
Huron yell. 

" On with the charge ! " with shout and cheer they 
come ; 
No laggard there upon that field of fame. 
The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, 

And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of 
flame. 

On ! on ! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks — 
Still as the grave — unmoved as granite wall ; — 

The foe before — the dizzy crags behind — 

They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors 
fall. 

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait. 

That raging sea of human life now near ; — 
" Fire ! " rings from right to left, — each musket rings. 

As if a thunder peal had struck the startled ear. 

Again, and yet again that volley flies, — 

With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field ; — 
All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam. 

And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely 
wield. 

And down the line swells high the British cheer. 
That on a future day woke Minden's plain. 

And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes 

Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again. 



1 6 A Treasury of 

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed 
On dark CuUoden moor o'er trampled dead, 

Now sounds the " Onset " that each Clansman knows, 
Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood 
is shed. 



And on that day no nobler stained the sod, 
Than his, who for his country laid life down ; 

Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, 

And strove from rival's brow to wrest the laurel 
crown. 

Twice struck, — he recks not, but still heads the charge, 
But, ah ! fate guides the marksman's fatal ball : — 

With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade's aid, — 
" We win, — let not my soldiers see their Leader fall." 

Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast, — 

When hark ! " They run ; see how they run ! " they 
cry. 
"Who run?" "The foe." His eyes flash forth one 
gleam. 
Then murmuring low he sighs, " Praise God, in 
peace I die." 

VI 

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead, 
As when a cyclone through the forest cleaves ; — 

And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, 
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn 
leaves. 

The "Fleur de Lys" lies trodden on the ground, — 
The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave, — 

" All's well " resounds from tower and battlement. 
And England's banners proudly o'er the ramparts 
wave. 



Canadian Verse 17 

Slowly the mighty war ships sail away, 
To tell their country of an empire won ; 

But, ah ! they bear the death-roll of the slain, 
And all that mortal is of Britain's noblest son. 



VII 

With bowed head they lay their Hero down, 

And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave; — 

Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby, 

And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored 
grave. 

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills, — 
And rends the very sky a people's joy ; — 

And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair, 
The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant boy. 

And while broad England gleams with glorious light. 
And merry peals from every belfry ring ; — 

One little village lies all dark and still, 

No fires are lighted there — no battle songs they sing. 

There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds, 

A mother mourns — the silent tear-drops fall ; — 

She too had given to swell proud England's fame. 
But, ah ! she gave the widow's mite — she gave her 
all! 

SPORT 

AH ! list the music of the whistling wings, 
As westward sweeps the long-extended corps ; 
Our own Outarde revisits well-known haunts. 

And the loud quack rings out anew from sea to shore. 

The Canvas-back a double zest affords. 
And yields a dish to " set before a king " ; 

And where the north-shore streams rush to the sea. 
Here the rare Harlequin shoots past on rapid wing. 

B 



1 8 A Treasury of 

To Grondine's flats the Ibis yet returns ; 

The snowy Goose loves well the sedgy shore ; 
Loud booms the Bittern 'midst the clustering reeds, 

And the famed Heron nests on pine-top as of yore. 

If shapely form and splendour charm the eye, 

The graceful Wood-Duck claims fair beauty's prize ; 

No gorgeous plumes like his adorn the crest ; 

No lovelier shades could feathers yield or sparkling 
eyes. 

The shady copse the wary Woodcock haunts ; 

From Chateau Richer's swamps the Snipe upsprings; 
Ontario's fields know well the scurrying Quail, 

And o'er the glassy lake the Loon's weird laughter 
rings. 

Afar 'midst forest glades, where Red Men lie ; 

On mossy log the RufRed Grouse strut and drum ; 
The plump Tetrao courts the spruce tree's shade ; 

And spotless Ptarmigan with boreal tempests come. 

Resplendent thro' the grove the Turkey roams. 
And lends a deeper grace to Christmas cheer ; 

Our silvery lakes still claim the graceful Swan ; 
And o'er the uplands shrill the Plover's pipe we hear. 

Or come, where far on rolling Western plains. 
Beneath the brushwood Sagefowl snugly lie ; 

And Prairie Hens rush boldly at the foe. 

Their cowering brood to shield, as swoops the 
Falcon by. 

A hunter thou ? The grim Bear courts thy skill, 
And fearless roams ere yet he seeks his den ; 

His glossy robes might grace triumphal car, — 
His pearly spoils proclaim the rank of dusky men. 



Canadian Verse 19 

The Wolf, still tireless, tracks his victim's trail ; 
The prowling Lynx, like sleuth-hound, wends his 
way; 
And by the well-worn path the Carcajou 

Drops from his hidden perch upon the unwary 
prey. 

Shy Reynard follows where the startled Hare 
Darts thro' the matted elders like a gleam ; 

And the sleek Otter on his titbits dines, 

Nor dreads the Hound's loud bark upon his lonely 
stream. 

Far from men's haunts the Beaver builds his dam 
And ponderous mound, to keep him safe from 
harm; 
His larder filled with choicest winter stores, — 

Cold winds may bite and blow, his lair is soft and 
warm. 

Thro' rushing chute and pool the Fisher swims ; 

And Mink and Martin sport right merrily ; 
While overhead the angry Squirrel chides. 

And warns the rude intruder from his nut-stored 
tree. 

And when the maple trees are stripped and bare, — 
When land and stream with snow are mantled o'er, — 

When light toboggans down the mountains sweep. 
And the bold skater skims the lake from shore to 
shore, 

Then don thy snowshoes, grasp thy rifle true ; 

The timid Red Deer thro' the forest bounds, — 
The wary Caribou rests on the frozen lake, 

And browse the mighty Moose upon their endless 
rounds. 



20 A Treasury of 

These all and more await the hunter's skill ; 

Such trophies well our antlered halls adorn ; 
Their shining coats may win a golden prize, 

Or keep us snug and warm amid the winter storm. 

But yet, possessed of aught that hands could win, 
Or all that pleasure puts within our ken, 

We joy to know a nobler gift is ours, — 

We own the heaven-sent heritage of freeborn men. 



ALICE M. ARDAGH 

SIC PASSIM 

(the same everywhere) 

I CAME upon a drawer to-day. 
Half-filled with closely written scraps ; 
A motley crew, and all, perhaps. 
But worthy to be cast away 

In other eyes, but to my heart 
Dear indexes of pleasures, pains, 
Life-revelations, losses, gains. 

That in my life have borne their part. 

Small profit were it to detail ! 

Each fragment paints its little hour. 
And each and all are fraught with power 

To tell the same unflattering tale : 

Of love, and faithlessness in love ; 

Of pain, and balm in pleasure found ; 

Such things in every life abound. 
Nor total worthlessness need prove. 



Canadian Verse 21 

The suns that gild my path to-day 
May pale to stars within the year, 
What now I lightly hold grow dear, 

Yet both a natural law obey. 



For joys and sorrows rise and set 
With never-failing eve and morn ; 
Night yields unto another dawn 

And then we say that we " forget." 



O Thou whose passions are divine, 
Contemn not that Thou didst create ! 
In soul or body, love or hate, 

We are but what Thou didst design. 



Thou mad'st us mortal, and we hate 
And love as mortals. Grace divine ! 
The earthen vessel and the wine 

In strength are made proportionate. 



Ah, lay them by where they have lain ! 
The years to come shall swell their list. 
The sun shall rise through sorrow's mist 

And set in whelming clouds again. 



Poor worthless scraps ! they have outworn 
The fickle moods that gave them birth, 
Yet neither I nor they are worth 

The critic's undivided scorn. 



For as in water, face to face. 
So is the heart of man to man ; 
By others each himself may scan. 

Nor dare to claim a higher place. 



22 A Treasury of 



ISIDORE G. ASCHER 

BY THE FIRELIGHT 

CRADLED within the arms of night, 
The unquiet day is lulled asleep 
The weary hours have taken flight, 

Leaving their shadows long and deep, 
That spread upon the earth below, 
Soft as the falling of the snow. 

Betwixt the glimmer and the gloom, 

The twilight beameth tenderly 
In dim rays o'er the dusky room, 

Like hope of immortality, 
That o'er the earth-bound spirit falls, 
And shineth through life's prison walls. 

Our converse is of earthly things : 

Our little world of joys is pure, 
And silvery laughter peals and rings. 

Like flute-sounds in an overture, 
Swelling with sudden rise aloft, 
Or toning to a cadence soft. 

The firelight dances on the walls, 
In wavering streams of ruby light ; 

A human ray that gladly falls. 

Cheering the mellow hours of night, 

While even hurrying Time does seem 

To linger by the lambent gleam ! 

No shadow in our dear retreat. 

Nor heart-glooms, like the night-mists rise 
Love speaketh from the laughter sweet. 

Love danceth in the sparkling eyes ! 
While in the radiance on the wall, 
God's love, divine, seems over all ! 



Canadian Verse 23 

The wrathful storm tramps wildly by 
The desert waste of snows abroad ; 

The keen winds rush with sullen cry, 
Like shrieks of horror on the road : 

Within, the lustre of a light, 

Like Israel's pillar-flame at night ! 



No mystic seer looks upward now 
In stars to read his destiny : 

We watch the flame's pure vestal glow 
Shine like a beacon, steadfastly, 

And read our fireside cheering lore 

Imaged in light upon the floor. 



SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS 

IN MATABELE LAND 

" O ADDLE and mount and away ! " — loud the 
v3 bugles in Durban are pealing : 
Carbine and cartridge and girth-buckle, look to it, 
troopers, and ride ! 
Ride for your lives and for England ! Ride in your 
hot saddles reehng ! 
Red in the blaze of their homesteads, the trail in 
your kin's blood is dyed. 
Up ! who be men, and no other — rank, title, or no 
name, what matter ? 
Brood of the lion-cub litter, your birthmark's your 
passport to-day. 
Hard is the ride, and the fight ere they break for 
their coverts and scatter : 
Spring to the bugle's quick challenge, then, saddle 
and mount, and away ! 



24 A Treasury of 

" Find them and fight them and stand ! " down the 
Hne ran the captain's curt orders — 
Hot as the mission's red embers, they burned to 
the hearts of the men. 
Swift o'er the track's desolation, tho' peril each foot 
of it borders, 
On thro' the assegais' hurthng and make for the 
jungle-king's den ! 
There, where the waggons are creaking, with ill- 
gotten booty encumbered. 
Rush the Zareba ! It weakens — it breaks ! but to 
close as the sand 
Follows the swirl of the tide-beat — a handful by 
thousands outnumbered ! — 
England shall hear that we failed not to find them 
and fight them and stand. 

Stand for the Queen ! Ay, God save her ! and save 
us, for sure there's no other ; 
Trapped, with no chance for our lives, let the 
black devils see we can die. 
Scrawl them a line or a letter — sweetheart, wife, sister 
or mother — 
Quick, for their bullets fly faster ; a handclasp — 
" old fellow — goodbye ! " 
Round up the horses and shoot them — close up the 
dead comrade's places — 
Pray if you can, but shoot steady — the last cart- 
ridge gone ! — all is still. 
Save for the yells of the victors, that hush as they see 
the white faces 
Kindle when comes the last order : " Men ! hats 
off, God save ! "—Ay, He will. 



Canadian Verse 25 

THE COUREUR-DE-BOIS. 

T N the glimmering light of the Old Regime 
J- A figure appears like the flushing gleam 
Of sunlight reflected from sparkling stream, 

Or jewel without a flaw. 
Flashing and fading but leaving a trace 
In story and song of a hardy race, 
Finely fashioned in form and face — 
The Old Coureur-de-Bois. 

No loiterer he 'neath the sheltering wing 
Of ladies' bowers where gallants sing. 
Thro' his woodland realm he roved a king ! 

His untamed will his law. 
From the wily savage he learned his trade 
Of hunting and wood-craft ; of nothing afraid : 
Bravely battling, bearing his blade 

As a free Coureur-de Bois. 

A brush with the foe, a carouse with a friend. 
Were equally welcome, and made some amend 
For the gloom and silence and hardships that tend 

"To shorten one's life, niafoiT^ 
A wife in the hamlet, another he'd take — 
Some dusky maid — to his camp by the lake ; 
A rattling, roving, rollicking rake 

This gay Coureur-de-Bois. 

Then peace to his ashes ! He bore his part 
For his country's weal with a brave stout heart 
A child of nature, untutored in art, 

In his narrow world he saw 
But the dawning light of the rising sun 
O'er an Empire vast his toil had won. 
For doughty deeds and duty done 

SalUtl Coureur-de-Bois. 



26 A Treasury of 

JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH 

SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD 

JUNE 6, 1891 

JLJeAD ! dead ! And now before 
The threshold of bereaved Earnscliffe stand. 
In spirit, all who dwell within our land, 

From shore to shore ! 

Before that black-draped gate, 
Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone. 
For many loved and worshipped old Sir John, 

And none could hate. 

And he is dead, they say ! 
The words confuse and mock the general ear — 
What ! can there yet be House and members here. 

And no John A. ? 

So long all hearts he swayed, 
Like merry monarch of some olden time, 
Whose subjects questioned not his right divine, 

But just obeyed 

His will's e'en faintest breath. 
We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State, 
'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate, 

Such things as death ! 

Swift came the dread eclipse 
Of faculty, and limb and life at last. 
Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed. 

With silent lips, 

But not insensate heart ! 
He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee — 
The tender Christ compassioned such as he. 

And took their part. 



Canadian Verse 27 

As for his Statesman-fame, 
Let History calm his wondrous record read, 
And write the truth, and give him honest meed 

Of praise or blame ! 



RESTITUTION 

ENOUGH ! the lie is ended. God only owns the 
land; 
No parchment deed hath virtue unsigned by His own 

hand ; 
Out on the bold blasphemers who would eject the 

Lord, 
And pauperize His children, and trample on His 
word! 

Behold this glorious temple, with dome of starry sky. 
And floor of greensward scented, and trees for pillars 

high ; 
And song of birds for music, and bleat of lambs for 

prayer. 
And incense of sweet vapors uprising everywhere. 

Behold his table bounteous spread over land and sea. 
The sure reward of labor, to every mortal free ; 
And hark ! through Nature's anthem there rises the 

refrain. 
" God owns the world, but giveth it unto the sons of 

men." 

But see, within the temple, as in Solomon's of old. 
The money-changers haggle, and souls are bought 

and sold ; 
And that is called an owner's which can only be the 

Lord's, 
And Christ is not remembered — nor His whip of 

knotted cords. 



2 8 A Treasury of 

But Christ has not forgotten, and wolfish human 

greed 
Shall be driven from our heritage; God's bounties 

shall be freed ; 
And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the 

crime-stained leaves, 
Which have turned the world, God's Temple, into a 

den of thieves. 



CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS 

IN MEMORIAM 

WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is 
dead. 
Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts ; 
He whose revered and silver-crowned head 

Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts ; 
Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien, 
His fingers clasping Shakespere's CymbeHne. 

Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt, 
Amidst the dust of your illustrious great. 

He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped, 
Peer of the grandest of your race and state ; 

Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime — 

A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time ! 

For, even while the trembling hand of age 

Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound 

Smote false your hearts ; the venerable Mage, 
The Master-minstrel all your being found ; 

Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth. 

And charmed with music the high paths to truth. 



Canadian Verse 29 

Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone, 

And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse ; 

Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone ; 

Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse ; 

All, all in vain— no Star of Song doth rise 

Above the grave where your great Laureate lies. 

The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace 
A front less high than this majestic brow, 

The stamp imperial graved upon the face. 
Fervently lighted with the poet's vow ; 

And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart 

Blooming and fruiting in the close of art. 

That hand which might have grasped yon silent lyre. 
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might. 

Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir, 
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light ; 

Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran 

Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man. 

But now, the Arthur of your poet realm, 
Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme. 

Whom will ye find to wear his winged helm 
Or ride his charger down the lists of time ? 

The new Pendragon— where can such be found ? 

Alas, not one of all your Table Round ! 

Let none the storied chords of that clear harp 
Restrike in service dissonant and vain ; 

Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp ; 
Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain ; 

Hang up the shining wires above his head 

And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead. 



A Treasury of 



CHAUCER 

THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee, 
Dan Chaucer, bUthest of the sons of morn ! 
How, from that dim and mellow distance borne. 
Come floating down thy measures pure and free. 
Thou prime old minnesinger ! Pageantry, 
And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn 
The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn — 
Though England perish, these will live in thee ! 

Thine is the jocund springtime — winsome May, 
Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly 
wight ; 

The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay. 
And in thy graver verse thy nation's might ; 

O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day. 
Still echo through her noon thy clear delight ! 



POPE 

BEHOLD the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools. 
The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, 
Forging his couplets of heroic chime. 
And beating all his masters at their rules ; 
With what an arsenal of shining tools 

He wrought to shape his fanciful sublime, 
Flouting each proud Msecenas of the time. 
And shoving all the dunces from their stools. 

And you'd deny him greatness ? Would to-day 
Your acrobatic bards could fill his place ! 

He lacked variety ? But who can sway 
More forceful measures in a narrow place ? 

Yield him, O Fame, brightest three-leaved bay. 
Mind, manners, men, the Horace of his race ! 



Canadian Verse 31 



BLANCHE BISHOP 

THE BRIDE O' THE SUN 

IN a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving 
through, 
She comes, when the tremulous morning is new, 

The bride o' the sun ; 
Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads. 
Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds. 
The bride o' the sun. 

There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side, 
But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride, 

The bride o' the sun. 
There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least. 
When open the light-shedding doors of the East 

To the bride o' the sun. 

Lo he Cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold. 
And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold, 

On the bride o' the sun ; — 
Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame, 
Unfolding to flower o'er all her fair frame, 

Sweet bride o' the sun. 

O glorious bridal of fire and earth ! 
O ancient of miracles ! new as at birth 

Of the bride o' the sun. 
All creation doth wear a more rapturous face, 
For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space, 

Ever bride o' the sun. 



WINTER FLOWERS 

WHEN tree and bush are comfortless, 
And fields are piteous bare, 
A garden blooms upon my hearth. 
And it is summer there. 



32 A Treasury of 

From the gray log's quiescent length 
Burst the bright flowers of flame, — 

Like the far flashings of the stars, 
Too rare for earthly name. 

Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt, 
Their petals softly blow ; 

Now clear as water in the sun, 
When the blue sky lies below. 

And daintily they toss and sway 
To the breath of soundless airs, — 

The memories of wooing winds 
That made the forest theirs. 

for the secret that the sun 
Shares with the burning tree ! 

Elusive sweet as the witching flow 
Of water to the sea. 

In thought I grasp the mystic word. 
And lo ! it hath no form. 

1 only know 'tis dark without. 

And here 'tis light and warm. 



CHRISTMAS MORN 

COME, happy morn, serene and fair, 
With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer ; 
Come with thy faintly smiling eyes, 
And brow whereon majestic rise 

Suns of eternal morn. 

Come, happy morn, for see and hark ! 
A world lies waiting in the dark, 
With throbbing heart and straining gaze, 
To catch thy first up-springing rays, 

O, happy, happy morn ! 



Canadian Verse 33 

The whispering stars will see it first, 
From star to star the tidings burst — 
Their paling faces earthward bowed, 
While men and angels worship loud 

The Christ who is the Morn. 



I 



EDWARD BLACKADDER 

ANNAPOLIS ROYAL 

LOITER here within this ancient town — 

Long time agone the rising hope of France, 
The seed of future empire — as in trance, 
'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down. 



Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown 
Of death-disgorging cannon long ago, 
And wide the gleaming basin spreads below, 
Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known. 

Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place ; 

Along these shores have hundreds bled and died 

To save this jewel for the Gallic crown. 
Stern fate ordained it for another race : 

The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide ; 

Peace rules o'er all ; war's trumpet sleeps unblown. 



JEAN BLEWETT 

THE TWO MARYS 

THEY journey sadly, slowly on, 
The day has scarce begun. 
Above the hills the rose of dawn 
Is heralding the sun, 
c 



34 A Treasury of 

While down in still Gethsemane 
The shadows have not moved, 

They go, by loss oppressed, to see 
The grave of One they loved. 

The eyes of Mary Magdalene 

With heavy grief are filled ; 
The tender eyes that oft have seen 

The strife of passion stilled. 
And never more that tender voice 

Will whisper " God forgives " ; 
How can the earth at dawn rejoice 

Since He no longer lives ? 

O, hours that were so full and sweet ! 

So free from doubts and fears ! 
When kneeling lowly at His feet 

She washed them with her tears ! 
With head low bowed upon her breast 

The other Mary goes, 
" He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest 

Untroubled by our woes." 

And spices rare their hands do hold 

For Him the loved and lost, 
And Magdalene, by love made bold, 

Doth maybe bring the most. 
It is not needed, — see ! the stone 

No longer keeps its place. 
And on it sits a radiant one 

A light upon his face. 

" He is not here, come near and look 

With thine own doubting eyes. 
Where once He lay — the earth is shook, 

And Jesus did arise." 
And now they turn to go away, 

Slow stepping, hand in hand, 
'Twas something wondrous He did say, 

If they could understand. 



Canadian Verse 35 

The sun is flooding vale and hill, 

Blue shines the sky above, 
"All hail ! "— O voice that wakes a thrill 

Familiar, full of love ! ' 

From darkest night to brightest day, 

From deep despair to bliss, 
They to the Master run straightway. 

And kneel His feet to kiss. 

O Love ! that made Him come to save, 
To hang on Calvary, 

O mighty Love ! that from the grave 
Did lift and set Him free ! 

Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth- 
with voice so sweet and strong. 

Sing, till it thrills through all the earth— 
The Resurrection Song ! 

SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME 

OHE is so winsome and so wise 
^ She sways us at her will. 
And oft the question will arise 
What mission does she fill ? 

And so I say, with pride untold 

And love beyond degree. 
This woman with the heart of gold, 
She just keeps house for me. 

A full content dwells in her face, 

She's quite in love with life, 
And for a title wears with grace 

The sweet old-fashioned " Wife." 

What though I toil from morn till night. 

What though I weary grow, 
A spring of love and dear delight 

Doth ever softly flow. 



o 



6 A Treasury of 

Our children climb upon her knee 

And lie upon her breast, 
And ah ! her mission seems to me 
The highest and the best. — 
And so I say, with pride untold 

And love beyond degree, 
This woman with the heart of gold, 
She just keeps house for me. 



y 



AT QUEBEC 

/QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill. 
Lies with a golden glory on her head, 
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still. 
Of other days and all her mighty dead. 

The white doves perch upon the cannons grim. 
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide 
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim 
Above the battlefield so grim and wide. 

Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow 
Of pride, of tenderness — her stirring past — 
The strife, the valor, of the long ago 

Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, 
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, 
A wondrous softness on her grey old face. 



JOHN BREAKENRIDGE 
THE TROUBADOUR 

TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CCEUR DE LION 

O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold 
From thy prison, near which the dark waters 
are rolled ; 
'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay 
Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away ; 



Canadian Verse -iy^j 

As David of old, when he played before Saul, 
Could banish the demon of woe at his call. 



O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword 
Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord : 
How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled ! 
How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead ! 
The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird, 
Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred. 

Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest. 
Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed ; 
With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on, 
Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John ; 
When the heralds were crying — Brave Knights, have 

a care. 
Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair ! 

O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off, 
Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff; 
How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen 

Berengere,"^ 
While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air ! 
How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode. 
And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode ! 

O, England, arise ! for thine honour advance, 
And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France ; 
Spread out thy broad standard — " Saint George ! " be 

the cry ; 
To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly ! 
Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol, 
No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul ! 

Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps. 

And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps ! 

* Berengaria. 



38 A Treasury of 

Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown, 
And still the usurper no hand hurleth down. 
Doth England forget Coeur de Lion ? O, no ! 
For him the bright tears of her people still flow. 

On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe, 
And before me long years of the dark future flow. 
The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn, 
The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won. 
Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just, 
And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust. 

But ere the avenger shall rise in his might, 
Long ages w^ill pass, wherein wrong conquers right ; 
Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head ; 
Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead ; 
But now, and forever, there beats in one heart 
Devotion, that living, shall thence never part. 

Coeur de Lion, farewell ! But again, when at eve 
The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe, 
O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown, 
I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown. 
King of England, farewell ! for the night falleth fast, 
And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last. 



JOHN HENRY BROWN 

THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN 

WHAT shall withstand her? who shall gainsay 
her? 

The mighty nation ! 

Nation of freemen with hearts linked together — 

None to betray her. 



Canadian Verse 39 

When from the strong soul leaps forth indignation, 
How shall the wrong live ? how should the false thrive ? 

How prosper liars ? 
Down with dissemblers, far hence be each dastard, 

Hence all deniers ! 

Chaunt the great nation with hands locked together. 

North, South, East, West, one bond binds the true- 
hearted. 

Each one for the nation and the nation for each one. 

Where the millions are one fears no one of the millions. 

See the monster, Behemoth, stride from ocean to ocean, 

From the pole to equator, from the pole to the pole. 

Did he slumber — you dreamed ? — lo ! a single man's 
wronged there, 

And the turbulent crowds raise a cry smites the welkin : 

As one pulse beat the millions swift help to the wronged 
one, 

And the wronger slinks back. Justice now hath a 
pleader. 

Stem the steep waves of ocean when Boreas hath 

stirred them — 
Quell the riotous billows when tempest doth lash them — 
O the free waves of ocean, how resistless their forces ! 
O each man of the miUions a light-crested fighter ! 
O the millions oceanic with souls linked together ! 
O the surging, triumphant, troth-plighting, united — 
The many in one, the sure tie forged by freedom. 

How sing fit praise ? how raise the paean ? 

Say ye who love her. 
How of true hearts breathe the single devotion — 

A song empyrean ? 
Mingle a voice from strong souls the land over, 
Voices of maidens, wives, husbands and lovers, 

A voice from the sea — 
Chaunting deep faith in the nation of freemen ! 

Forever to be ! 



40 A Treasury of 

A SUNSET 

A PERFECT artist hath been here ; the scene 
Is grandly imaged ; with what breadth of hand, 
What noble grace of freedom, all is planned ! 
The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen ; 
The magic hues — gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green, 
And now the western gateway, see, is spanned ! 
A nameless glory gilds the favored land, 
And still the spirit-artist works unseen. 

Belike upon the chamber of a king 

My erring steps have stumbled ; yet, meseems, 
These, like myself, are common men, who spring 

From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams. 
Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing, 
Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams. 



EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW 

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 

WHEN early shades of evening's close 
The air with solemn darkness fill, 
Before the moonlight softly throws 
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill, 
A sad sound goes 
In plaintive thrill ; 
Who hears it knows 
The Whip-poor-will. 

The Nightingale unto the rose 
Its tale of love may fondly trill ; 
No love-tale this — 'tis grief that flows 
With pain that never can be still. 

The sad sound goes 

In plaintive thrill ; 



Canadian Verse 41 

Who hears it knows 
The Whip-poor-will. 

Repeated oft, it never grows 
Familiar, but is sadder still, 
As though a spirit sought repose 
From some pursuing, endless ill. 

The sad sound goes 

In plaintive thrill ; 

Who hears it knows 

The Whip-poor-will. 



THE SONNET 

THE sonnet is a diamond flashing round 
From every facet true rose-colored lights ; 
A gem of thought carved in poetic nights 
To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned ; 

A miniature of soul wherein are found 

Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights ; 
A drop of blood with which a lover writes 
His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound ; 

A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep 
Rocked in its frenzied passion ; the last note 
Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat ; 

A cascade small flung in a canyon steep, 
With crystal music. At this shrine of song 
High priests of poesy have worshipped long. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON 

THE GOLDEN TEXT 

YOU ask for fame or power ? 
Then up and take for text : 
This is my hour. 

And not the next, nor next ! 



42 A Treasury of 

Oh, wander not in ways 
Of ease or indolence ! 

Swift come the days, 

And swift the days go hence. 



Strike ! while the hand is strong : 
Strike ! while you can and may 

Strength goes ere long, — 
Even yours will pass away. 



Sweet seem the fields, and green, 
In which you fain would He : 

Sweet seems the scene 
That glads the idle eye : 



Soft seems the path you tread, 
And balmy soft the air, — 

Heaven overhead 

And all the earth seem fair : 



But, would your heart aspire 
To noble things, — to claim 

Bard's, statesman's fire — 

Some measure of their fame ; 



Or, would you seek and find 
Their secret of success 

With mortal kind ? 

Then, up from idleness ! 



Up — up ! all fame, all power 
Lies in this golden text : — 

This is my hour — 
A7id not the next, nor next ! 



Canadian Verse 43 



IS THERE A GOD? 

IS there a God, then, above us ? 
I ask it again and again : 
Is there a good God to love us — 
A God who is mindful of men ? 



Is there a God who remembers 

That we have our nights as our noons ? 
Our dark and our dismal Decembers 

As well as our garden-gay Junes ? 



ON TIPTOE 

STANDING on tiptoe ever since my youth, 
Striving to grasp the future just above, 
I hold at length the only future — Truth, 
And Truth is Love. 



I feel as one who, being awhile confined, 
Sees drop to dust about him all his bars : — 

The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind 
Dwells with the stars. 



WHAT MATTERS IT? 

WHAT reck we of the creeds of men ? — 
We see them — we shall see again. 
What reck we of the tempest's shock ? 
What reck we where our anchor lock ? 

On golden marl or mould — 
In salt-sea flower or riven rock — 
What matter — so it hold ? 



44 A Treasury of 

What matters it the spot we fill 

On Earth's green sod when all is said ?- 

When feet and hands and heart are still 
And all our pulses quieted? 

When hate or love can kill nor thrill, — 
When we are done with life, and dead ? 



So we be haunted night nor day 
By any sin that we have sinned, 

What matter where we dream away 
The ages ? — In the isles of Ind, 

In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay, 

Or in some world of winter wind ? 



It may be I would wish to sleep 

Beneath the wan, white stars of June, 

And hear the southern breezes creep 
Between me and the mellow moon ; 

But so I do not wake to weep 
At any night or any noon, 

And so the generous gods allow 

Repose and peace from evil dreams, 

It matters little where or how 

My couch be spread : — by moving streams, 

Or on some ancient mountain's brow 
Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams. 

For we shall rest ; the brain that planned. 
That thought or wrought or well or ill, 

At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand. 
Not working any work or will. 

While eye and lip and heart and hand 
Shall all be still— shall all be still ! 



Canadian Verse 45 

BLISS CARMAN 
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PR6 

THE sun goes down, and over all 
These barren reaches by the tide 
Such unelusive glories fall, 

I almost dream they yet will bide 
Until the coming of the tide. 

And yet I know that not for us, 
By any ecstasy of dream. 

He lingers to keep luminous 

A little while the grievous stream. 
Which frets, uncomforted of dream — 

A grievous stream, that to and fro 

Athrough the fields of Acadie 
Goes wandering, as if to know 

Why one beloved face should be 

So long from home and Acadie. 

Was it a year, or lives ago. 

We took the grasses in our hands, 

And caught the summer flying low 
Over the waving meadow lands. 
And held it there between our hands ? 

The while the river at our feet — 
A drowsy inland meadow stream — 

At set of sun the after-heat 

Made running gold, and in the gleam 
We freed our birch upon the stream. 

There down along the elms at dusk 
We Hfted dripping blade to drift, 

Through twilight scented fine like musk, 
Where night and gloom awhile uplift. 
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift. 



46 A Treasury of 

And that we took into our hands 
Spirit of Hfe or subtler thing — 

Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands 
Of death, and taught us, whispering, 
The secret of some wonder-thing. 

Then all your face grew light, and seemed 
To hold the shadow of the sun ; 

The evening faltered, and I deemed 

That time was ripe, and years had done 
Their wheeling underneath the sun. 

So all desire and all regret, 

And fear and memory, were naught ; 

One to remember or forget 

The keen delight our hands had caught ; 
Morrow and yesterday were naught. 

The night has fallen, and the tide . . . 
Now and again comes drifting home. 

Across these aching barrens wide, 
A sigh like driven wind or foam : 
In grief the flood is bursting home. 



THE GRAVEDIGGER 

OH, the shambling sea is a sexton old. 
And well his work is done. 
With an equal grave for lord and knave. 
He buries them every one. 

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip. 

He makes for the nearest shore ; 

And God, who sent him a thousand ship. 

Will send him a thousand more ; 

But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, 

And shoulder them in to shore, — 

Shoulder them in, shoulder them in. 

Shoulder them in to shore. 



Canadian Verse 47 

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre 
Went out, and where are they ? 
In the port they made, they are delayed 
With the ships of yesterday. 

He followed the ships of England far, 

As the ships of long ago ; 

And the ships of France they led him a dance, 

But he laid them all arow. 

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him 
Is the sexton of the town ; 
For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, 
He shovels the dead men down. 

But though he delves so fierce and grim, 
His honest graves are wide. 
As well they know who sleep below 
The dredge of the deepest tide. 

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip. 
And loud is the chorus skirled ; 
With the burly note of his rumbling throat 
He batters it down the world. 

He learned it once in his father's house, 
Where the ballads of eld were sung ; 
And merry enough is the burden rough. 
But no man knows the tongue. 

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, 
And wilful she must have been. 
That she could bide at his gruesome side 
When the first red dawn came in. 

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those 
She greets to his border home ; 
And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep 
That beckons, and they come. 



48 A Treasury of 

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough 
To handle the tallest mast ; 
From the royal barque to the slaver dark. 
He buries them all at last. 



Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, 

He makes for the nearest shore; 

And God, who sent him a thousand ship, 

Will send him a thousand more ; 

But some he'll save for a bleaching grave. 

And shoulder them in to shore, — 

Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, 

Shoulder them in to shore. 



THE CRIMSON HOUSE 

LOVE built a crimson house- 
I know it well — 
That he might have a home 
Wherein to dwell. 



Poor Love that roved so far 
And fared so ill. 
Between the morning star 
And the Hollow Hill, 

Before he found the vale 
Where he could bide. 
With memory and oblivion 
Side by side. 

He took the silver dew 

And the dun red clay, 

And behold when he was through 

How fair were they ! 



Canadian Verse 49 

The braces of the sky 
Were in its girth 
That it should feel no jar 
Of the swinging earth ; 

That sun and wind might bleach 
But not destroy 
The house that he had builded 
For his joy. 



" Here will I stay," he said 
"And roam no more, 
And dust when I am dead 
Shall keep the door." 



There trooping dreams by night 

Go by, go by. 

The walls are rosy white 

In the sun's eye. 

The windows are more clear 

Than sky or sea ; 

He made them after God's 

Transparency. 

It is a dearer place 
Than Kirk or inn ; 
Such joy on joy as there 
Has never been. 



HACK AND HEW 

T_J ACK and Hew were the sons of God 
-■-J- In the earlier earth than now ; 
One at his right hand, one at his left, 
To obey as he taught them how. 



50 A Treasury of 

And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, 
But both had the wild, wild heart ; 
And God's calm will was their burning will, 
And the gist of their toil was art. 

They made the moon and the belted stars. 
They set the sun to ride ; 
They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, 
The wind and the purple tide. 

Both flower and beast beneath their hands 
To beauty and speed outgrew, — 
The furious fumbling hand of Hack, 
And the glorying hand of Hew. 

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, 
And painted him rosy brown ; 
And God Himself blew hard in his eyes : 
" Let them burn till they smoulder down ! " 

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought 

Hew, 
" We'll rest, for our toil is done." 
But " Nay," the Master Workman said, 
" For your toil is just begun. 

" And ye who served me of old as God 
Shall serve me anew as man, 
Till I compass the dream that is in my heart, 
And perfect the vaster plan." 

And still the craftsman over his craft. 
In the vague white light of dawn. 
With God's calm will for his burning will. 
While the mountain day comes on, 

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, 
Toils with those shadowy two, — 
The faltering restless hand of Hack, 
And the tireless hand of Hew. 



Canadian Verse 51 



PHILLIPS BROOKS 

THIS is the white winter day of his burial. 
Time has set here of his toihng the span 
Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the 

portal, 
Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man ! 

Out in the broad open sun be his funeral, 
Under the blue for the city to see. 
Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle ! 
Churches are narrow to hold such as he. 

Here on the steps of the temple he builded, 
Rest him a space, while the great city square 
Throngs with his people, his thousands, his mourners ; 
Tears for his peace and a multitude's prayer. 

How comes it, think you, the town's traffic pauses 
Thus at high noon ? Can we wealthmongers grieve ? 
Here in the sad surprise greatest America 
Shows for a moment her heart on her sleeve. 

She who is said to give life-blood for silver, 
Proves, without show, she sets higher than gold 
Just the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless, 
Made in God's likeness once more as of old. 

Once more the crude makeshift law overproven, — 
Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite. 
Once more the gladder way wins revelation, — 
Soul bent on God forgets evil outright. 

Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty, 
Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear ! 
Once more the new, purer plan's vindication, — 
Man be God's forecast, and Heaven is here. 



52 A Treasury of 

Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy Hero ! 
Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne ; 
They of the burden go forth on the morrow, 
Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn. 

No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting ; 
What giant arm to stay courage up now ? 
March we a thousand file up to the City, 
Fellow with fellow linked, — he taught us how ! 

Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance ! 
Never deployed for the steep nor the storm ! 
Hear him say, "Hold fast, the night wears to morning ! 
This God of promise is God to perform." 

Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven ! 
Thou hast known one wore this life without stain. 
What if for thee and me, — Street, Yard, or Common, — 
Such a white captain appear not again ! 

Fight on alone ! Let the faltering spirit 
Within thee recall how he carried a host, 
Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap ; 
One Way till strife be done, strive each at his most. 

Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee, 

Thou doubting world ; and with not an eye dim 

Say, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour, 

*' Brooks was His brother, and we have known him." 



THE WHITE GULL 

For the Centenary of the birth of Shelley 



T T P by the idling reef-set bell 
^ The tide comes in ; 
And to the idle heart to-day 
The wind has many things to say ; 



Canadian Verse 53 

The sea has many a tale to tell 
His younger kin. 

For we are his, bone of his bone, 

Breath of his breath ; 

The doom tides sway us at their will ; 

The sky of being rounds us still : 

And over us at last is blown 

The wind of death. 



A hundred years ago to-day 
There came a soul, 
A pilgrim of the perilous light. 
Treading the spheral paths of night. 
On whom the word and vision lay 
With dread control. 

Now the pale summer lingers near, 

And talks to me 

Of all her wayward journeyings, 

And the old, sweet, forgotten things 

She loved and lost and dreamed of here 

By the blue sea. 

The great cloud-navies, one by one, 
Bend sails and fill 

From ports below the round sea-verge ; 
I watch them gather and emerge. 
And steer for havens of the sun 
Beyond the hill. 

The grey sea-horses troop and roam ; 
The shadows fly 

Along the wind-floor at their heels ; 
And where the golden daylight wheels, 
A white gull searches the blue dome 
With keening cry. 



54 A Treasury of 

And something, Shelley, like thy fame ' 
Dares the wide moon 
In that sea-rover's glimmering flight. 
As if the Northland and the night 
Should hear thy splendid valiant name 
Put scorn to scorn. 



Ill 

Thou heart of all the hearts of men, 
Tameless and free. 

And vague as that marsh-wandering fire, 
Leading the world's outworn desire 
A night march down this ghostly fen 
From sea to sea ! 

Through this divided camp of dream 
Thy feet have passed, 
As one who should set hand to rouse 
His comrades from their heavy drowse ; 
For only their own deeds redeem 
God's sons at last. 

But the dim world will dream and sleep 

Beneath thy hand, 

As poppies in the windy morn. 

Or valleys where the standing corn 

Whispers when One goes forth to reap 

The weary land. 

O captain of the rebel host, 
Lead forth and far ! 
Thy toiling troopers of the night 
Press on the unavailing fight ; 
The sombre field is not yet lost, 
With thee for star. 

Thy lips have set the hail and haste 
Of clarions free 



Canadian Verse 55 

To bugle down the wintry verge 
Of time forever, where the surge 
Thunders and crumbles on a waste 
And open sea. 

IV 

Did the cold Norns who pattern life 
With haste and rest 

Take thought to cheer their pilgrims on 
Through trackless twilights vast and wan, 
Across the failure and the strife, 
From quest to quest, — 

Set their last kiss upon thy face, 

And let thee go 

To tell the haunted whisperings 

Of unimaginable things, 

Which plague thy fellows with a trace 

They cannot know ? 

So they might fashion and send forth 
Their house of doom, 
Through the pale splendor of the night. 
In vibrant, hurled, impetuous flight, 
A resonant meteor of the North 
From gloom to gloom. 



I think thou must have wandered far 
With Spring for guide, 
And heard the sky-born forest flowers 
Talk to the wind among the showers, 
Through sudden doorways left ajar 
When the wind sighed ; 

Thou must have heard the marching sweep 
Of blown white rain 



56 A Treasury of 

Go volleying up the icy kills, — 
And watched with Summer when the hills 
Muttered of freedom in their sleep 
And slept again. 

Surely thou wert a lonely one, 
Gentle and wild ; 

And the round sun delayed for thee 
In the red moorlands by the sea, 
When Tyrian Autumn lured thee on, 
A wistful child. 

To rove the tranquil, vacant year, 
From dale to dale ; 
And the great Mother took thy face 
Between her hands for one long gaze, 
And bade thee follow without fear 
The endless trail. 

And thy clear spirit, half forlorn, 
Seeking its own. 

Dwelt with the nomad tents of rain. 
Marched with the gold-red ranks of grain, 
Or ranged the frontiers of the morn, 
And was alone. 



VI 

One brief perturbed and glorious day ! 

How couldst thou learn 

The quiet of the forest sun, 

Where the dark, whispering rivers run 

The journey that hath no delay 

And no return ? 

And yet within thee flamed and sang 
The dauntless heart, 
Knowing all passion and the pain 
On man's imperious disdain. 



Canadian Verse 57 

Since God's great part in thee gave pang 
To earth's frail part. 

It held the voices of the hills 
Deep in its core ; 
The wandering shadows of the sea 
Called to it, — would not let it be ; 
The harvest of those barren rills 
Was in its store. 

Thine was a love that strives and calls 

Outcast from home, 

Burning to free the soul of man 

With some new life. How strange, a ban 

Should set thy sleep beneath the walls 

Of changeless Rome ! 



VII 

More soft, I deem, from spring to spring. 

Thy sleep would be 

Where this far western headland lies 

With its imperial azure skies, 

Under thee hearing beat and swing 

The eternal sea. 

Where all the livelong brooding day 

And all night long. 

The far sea-journeying wind should come 

Down to the doorway of thy home. 

To lure thee ever the old way 

With the old song. 

But the dim forest would so house 
Thy heart so dear. 
Even the low surf of the rain, 
Where ghostly centuries complain, 
Might beat against thy door and rouse 
No heartache here. 



58 A Treasury of 

For here the thrushes, calm, supreme, 

Forever reign, 

Whose gloriously kingly golden throats 

Regather their forgotten notes 

In keys where lurk no ruin of dream, 

No tinge of pain. 

And here the ruthless noisy sea. 
With the tide's will. 

The strong grey wrestler, should in vain 
Put forth his hand on thee again — 
Lift up his voice and call to thee, 
And thou be still. 

For thou hast overcome at last ; 

And fate and fear 

And strife and rumour now no more 

Vex thee by any wind-vexed shore, 

Down the strewn ways thy feet have passed 

Far, far from here. 



VIII 

Up by the idling, idling bell 
The tide comes in ; 
And to the restless heart to-day 
The wind has many things to say ; 
The sea has many a tale to tell 
His younger kin. 

The grey sea-horses troop and roam ; 
The shadows fly 

Along the wind-floor at their heels ; 
And where the golden daylight wheels, 
A white gull searches the blue dome 
With keening cry. 



Canadian Verse 59 

AMOS HENRY CHANDLER 
WHEN DORA DIED 

DREARY, dreary, 
Fundy's mists are sweeping 
Up the stricken vales of Westmoreland : 
Weary, weary 
Is my heart and weeping, 
While the cold waves dash upon the strand. 

Filled, filled 
Is the land with sorrow, 
In loud wailing roars the angry sea : 
Stilled, stilled 
Will they be to-morrow — 
Summer notes, and murmurs on the lea. . . . 

Coldly, coldly 
Blent with autumn mists lie 
Eve's dark shadows 'pon the hills away ; 
Boldly, boldly, 
Like a giant sentry, 
Chapeau Dieu keeps vigil o'er the bay. . . . 

Lay me, lay me. 

While the world is waking, 

Down to dream on what has gone before ; 

Pray ye, pray ye, 

Lest my heart be breaking, 

God to bring her to my side once more. . . . 



6o A Treasury of 

EDWARD J. CHAPMAN 
A SUMMER NIGHT 



THE purple shadows dreamingly 
Upon the dreaming waters He, 
And darken with the darkening sky. 

Calmly across the lake we float, 

I and thou, my little boat — 

The lake with its grey mist-capote. 

We lost the moon an hour ago : 
We saw it dip, and downward go. 
Whilst all the west was still aglow. 

But in those blue depths moon-forsaken 
A moon-like star its place hath taken ; 
And one by one the rest awaken. 



With noiseless paddle dip we glide 
Along the bay's dark-fringed side, 
Then out — amidst the waters wide ! 

With us there floated here last night 

Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white, 

But these have now spent all their might. 

We knew they would not injure us, 
Those tossing waves, so boisterous — 
And where is now their fret and fuss ? 

Only a ripple wrinkleth now 

The summer lake — and plashes low 

Against the boat, in fitful flow. 



Canadian Verse 6i 



III 

Still callest thou — thou Whip-poor-will ! 
When dipped the moon behind the hill 
I heard thee, and I hear thee still. 

But mingled with thy plaintive cry 
A wilder sound comes ebbing by, 
Out of the pine-woods, solemnly. 

It is the bhnking owls that sit 
Up in the trees, and wait a-bit 
Ere yet along the shores they flit. 

And hark, again ! It comes anew — 
Piercing the dark pine-forest through, 
With its long too-hoo, too-hoo ! 

IV 

Swifter and swifter, on we go ; 

For though the breeze but feigns to blow, 

Its kisses catch us, soft and low. 

But with us now, and side by side, 
Striving awhile for place of pride, 
A silent, dusky form doth glide. 

Though swift and light the birch canoe, 
It cannot take the palm from you. 
My little boat, so trim and true. 

" Indian ! where away to-night? " 
" Homeward I wend : yon beacon-light 
Shines out forme — good-night !" — "Good-night ! 



Shoreward again we glide — and go 
Where the sumach shadows flow 
Across the purple calm below. 



62 A Treasury of 

There, the far-winding creeks among, 
The frogs keep up, the summer long, 
The murmurs of their soft night-song — 

A song most soft and musical, 

Like the dulled voice of distant Fall, 

Or winds that through the pine-tops call. 

And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming, 
Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming — 
Through the cedars — dancing, streaming ! 



VI 

Who is it hideth up in a tree 

Where all but the bats asleep should be. 

And with his whistling mocketh me ? 

Such quaint, quick pipings — two-and-two : 

Half a whistle, half a coo — 

Ah, Mister Tree- Frog ! gare-a-vous ! 

The owls on noiseless wing gloom by, — 
Beware, lest one a glimpse espy 
Of your grey coat and jewelled eye ! 

And so, good-night ! — We glide anew 
Where shows the lake its softest blue 
With mirror'd star-points sparkling through. 



VII 

The lights upon the distant shore, 
That shone so redly, shine no more 
The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er. 

Already in the eastern skies, 
Where up and up new stars arise, 
A pearly lustre softly lies. 



Canadian Verse 63 

And time it were for us to take 

Our homeward course across the lake, 

Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake. 

O Night — where old shape-hauntings dwell, 
Though now, calm-eyed : — for thy soft spell, 
O soothing Night ! I thank thee well. 



ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE 
THE WOMAN'S PART 



G, 



ONE ! brother, lover, son ! 
Gone forth to certain peril, toil and pain, 
And chance of death — for country counted gain. 
Our part to let them go ; to say, " Not one 

Would we hold back," to give 
Our hearts' best treasures to our mother-land 
Though the gift break them ; firm of lip and hand 
To bid farewell ; to say, " Be strong, and live 
Victors, or die deserving." Who shall deem 
Our part the easier ? or the place we hold — 
Patience for courage — for the deed the dream — 
Waiting for action, — service slight or cold? 

What shall we give them ? Words ? 
To them, obedient to the bounds of faith. 
To them, enduring danger, fencing death. 
Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech 
swords. 

And were our frail hopes shields. 
Then might we give them ; but how frame our thought 
Nor mar the harvest-gift their truth has brought 
With the poor fruit a woman's nature yields 



64 A Treasury of 

When love sows seed ? Hush ! let us keep our souls 
In silence — Words of comfort, words of cheer, 
But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls 
Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear. 



What can we give them ? Prayers ? 
Shall not the God of battles work His will ? 
He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still 
And wait His word ; to cast aside our cares 

And trust His justice. Strife 
And peace are in His hand. They who shall see 
Victorious days, and in the time to be 
Shall share again the toils and joys of life 
Are His — but not less His are they who fall, 
(Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath) 
And not less loved that, true to duty's call. 
Their crown of honor comes to them in death. 



What shall we give them ? Tears ? 
Tears least of all ! Shame not their valor so — 
Honor and manhood call them ; let them go. 
Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears. 

O, woman-heart, be strong ! 
Too full for words — too humble for a prayer — 
Too faithful to be fearful — offer here 
Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long 
The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright 
Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save, 
But honored in her God's and country's sight 
She who lifts empty arms to cry, " I gave ! " 



AFTER THE BATTLE 

AY, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot 
where for honor they fell. 
The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the 
rifle their knell. 



Canadian Verse 65 

For what quiet and sheltered God's air would they 

barter that stained desert sod 
Where at His trumpet summons of duty they gave 

back their souls to their God ? 

" Private, Number One Company, shot through the 
heart. First to fall." Words immortal, sublime 

In their teaching, their power to move, and their 
pathos to plead, for all time. 

Shall we blench where they led? Shall we falter 
where they at such cost won their crown ? 

" Greater love hath no man — " we all know it ; they 
obeyed it and laid their lives down. 

" Friends " then, martyrs now, heroes both ways, they 
bequeath us their strength for our parts ; 

Their example their fittest memorial, their epitaphs 
deep in our hearts. 

From those graves on the far blood-stained prairie, on 
the field where their battle was done, 

They shall speak to our souls, and new fire through 
the veins of our patriots shall run. 

Wail orphans — weep sisters — look upward, sad 

mothers and desolate wives ; 
But mourn not as those without comfort the loss of 

the sanctified lives. 

Can you mourn unconsoled for their taking, though 
your heads may in anguish be bowed, 

With a nation's tears falling above them, their country's 
flag draped for their shroud ? 

As the blood of the martyr enfruitens his creed, so the 

hero sows peace, 
And the reaping of war's deadly harvest is the earnest 

his havoc shall cease. 

F 



66 A Treasury of 

If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, 

shrink not back from the cost ; 
What f/iey gave ungrudging for honor you have lent 

to your country, not lost. 

And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain 

and who share not your pride. 
If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause 

where your heroes have died. 



WELCOME HOME 

July, 1885 

WAR-WORN, sun-scorched, stained with the dust 
of toil. 
And battle-scarred they come — victorious. 
Exultantly we greet them ; cleave the sky 
With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds ; 
We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path 
To do them homage — bid them " Welcome Home." 

We laid our country's honor in their hands 
And sent them forth undoubting ; said farewell 
With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame 
To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. 
To-day they come again, and bring their gift — 
Of all earth's gifts most precious — trust redeemed. 
We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, 
Words of all words the sweetest — " Welcome Home ! " 

Oh, brave true hearts ! oh, steadfast loyal hearts ! 
They come, and lay their trophies at our feet : 
They show us work accomplished, hardships borne. 
Courageous deeds, and patience under pain. 
Their country's name upheld and glorified. 
And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. 



Canadian Verse 67 

What guerdon have we for such service done ? 

Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers ; 

Our country's smile, and her most just rewards ; 

The victor's laurel laid upon their brows, 

And all the love that speaks in "Welcome Home !" 

Bays for the heroes : for the martyrs, palms ! 

To those who come not, who " though dead yet speak " 

A lesson to be guarded in our souls 

While the land lives for whose dear sake they died — 

Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace, 

Whose memory, thrice beloved, thrice revered, 

Shall be their country's heritage, to hold 

Eternal pattern to her living sons — 

What dare we bring ? They, dying, have won all. 

A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, 

Are all the tribute left, — already their's 

A nation's safety, gratitude, and tears, 

Imperishable honor, endless rest ! 

And ye, O stricken-hearted ! to whom earth 
Is dark though Peace is smiling, whom no pride 
Can soothe, no triumph-paean can console, 
Ye surely will not fail them — will not shrink 
To perfect now your sacrifice of love ? 



GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE 

SKATER AND WOLVES 

SWIFTER the flight ! Far, far and high 
The wild air shrieks its savage cry, 
And all the earth is ghostly pale, 
While the young skater, strong and hale, 
Skims fearlessly the forest by. 



68 A Treasury of 

Hush ! shrieking blast, but wail and sigh ! 
Well sped, O skater, fly thee, fly ! 

Mild moon, let not thy glory fail ! 
Swifter the flight ! 



O, hush thee, storm ! thou canst not vie 
With that low summons, hoarse and dry. 
He hears, and oh ! his spirits quail, — 
He laughs and sobs within the gale. 
On, anywhere ! He must not die, — 
Swifter the flight ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY 

BUTTERFLY, 
Flutter by. 
Under and over. 
Haunting the clover. 
Each flashing wing 
Fashioning 

Quivering glories, 
Luminous stories ! 

Life in a miniature ! 

Swiftly to win a pure 
Realm of ideals. 
Hoping it heals. 

The best, the best 
Is the endless quest. 

Is hopefulness vain 
To feel or to feign ? 
Know you not, save to say : 
" It is glittering, glittering day,- 



Canadian Verse 69 

" The sun to me sings, 
Beauty dowers my wings, 

All of joy I attain." — 
Flutter by, 
Butterfly ! 



RESENTMENT 



THE ocean bursts in very wrath, 
The waters rush and whirl, 
As the hardy diver cleaves a path 
Down to the treasured pearl. 



ECCLESIASTES 

GOD speaks. Life beats within the brain, 
And crowding onward comes the cry 
Of worlds, — and in the senses, pain ! 
And in the heart, eternity ! 



A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN 

SHEPHERD Jesus, in Thy arms 
Let Thy little lamb repose, 
Safe and free from all alarms 
In the love the Shepherd shows ; 
May my slumber quiet be. 
Angels watching over me ! 



Often mother dear has told 
How the children Thou didst bless, 

And I know that in Thy fold 
All is joy and happiness : 

May my slumber quiet be. 
Angels watching over me ! 



70 A Treasury of 

Shepherd Jesus, make Thy child 
Pure and gentle as the dew, 
Keep my spirit undefiled 
Waking, sleeping, kind and true : 
May my slumber quiet be. 
Angels watching over me ! 



HUGH COCHRANE 

IDEAL 

THE song unsung more sweet shall ring. 
Than any note that yet has rung ; 
More sweet than any earthly thing 

The song unsung ! 
A harp there lies, untouched, unstrung 
As yet by man, but time shall bring 
A player by whose art and tongue 
This song shall sound to God the King ; 
The world shall cling as ne'er it clung 
To God and heaven, and all shall sing 
The song unsung. 



HEREWARD K. COCKIN 

THE DEATH OF BURNABY 

"/^^LOSE up in front, and steady, lads!" brave 
^ Stewart cries, " They're here " : 

And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answer- 
ing cheer ; 

One moment's pause — a year it seems — and swift the 
Arab horde 

Pours forth its mingled tide of hate and yells and 
spear and sword ; 



Canadian Verse 71 

As demons fight, so fight the children of the desert 

plain, 
Their naked breasts defy our steel again and yet 

again ; 
But steady as the granite cliff that stems a raging 

sea. 
Above the van of battle looms our "Bayard" — 

Burnaby. 



Broken ! The square is pierced ! But only for a 

moment, though, 
And shoulder-strap to shoulder-strap our brave lads 

meet the foe ; 
And on this day the Bedouin learns, in the Mahdi's 

shattered might. 
With what a god-like majesty the island legions fight. 
But, oh ! the cost, the bitter cost ! for ere the set of 

sun 
The bravest heart of Alba's isle its earthly course has 

run ; 
And Britain weeps sad, bitter tears whilst flushed with 

victory. 
For on Metemneh's blood-red sand lies noble Burnaby. 

Avenged ? Behold what hecatombs around the dead 

man lay 
(The royal paw is heaviest when the hon's brought to 

bay) ; 
And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife 
That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in 

life. 
And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him 

with scorn. 
Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn 
Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly 
How like the Israelite in death was " Samson " 

Burnaby. 



72 A Treasury of 

Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's 

State 
When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's 

guarded gate, 
Ay ! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy 

foetid breath : 
Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in 

death ; 
And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond 

thy northern shore, 
Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no 

more. 
Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's 

chivalry, 
'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant 



Burnaby 



SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES 

THE POET 

OVERY, very far from our dull earth. 
The land where poets spring to glorious birth. 
Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies, 
Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise ; 
Where truth is not too beautiful to see, 
Action is music, life a harmony. 
There dwells the poet, till some luckless day 
Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay, 
And in our dull and dusty commonplace 
He loses memory of his name and race, — 
Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn. 
The language of the land where he was born ; 
Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees, 
Waken his soul to wonder ; or he sees 



Canadian Verse "ji 

In some first fairness when the day is new, 
In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew, 
A lovehness that steals about his heart, 
And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start. 

Then he uprises joyously and binds 
His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds 
This drear existence a most glorious thing 
And sings because he cannot choose but sing. 



ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD 

THE MASTER-BUILDER 
LOVE builds on the azure sea, 



o 



And Love builds on the golden sand ; 
And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud. 
And sometimes Love builds on the land. 

O, if Love build on sparkling sea. 
And if Love build on golden strand, 

And if Love build on rosy cloud. 
To Love these are the solid land. 

O, Love will build his lily walls, 
And Love his pearly roof will rear. 

On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea, — 
Love's solid land is everywhere ! 



THE AXE OF THE PIONEER 

BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, 
What doth thy bold voice promise me ? 

" I promise thee all joyous things, 
That furnish forth the lives of Kings ! 



74 A Treasury of 

For every silver ringing blow 
Cities and palaces shall grow ! ' 



Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, 
Tell wider prophecies to me. 

" When rust hath gnawed me deep and red, 
A nation strong shall lift its head ! 

His crown the very heavens shall smite, 
^ons shall build him in his might ! " 

Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree ; 
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy ! 



From "THE HELOT" 

HELOT, drink — nor spare the wine ; 
Drain the deep, the maddening bowl ; 
Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine, 
Now I claim thy Helot soul. 

Gods ! ye love our Sparta ; ye 

Gave with vine that leaps and runs 

O'er her slopes, these slaves to be 
Mocks and warnings to her sons ! 

Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes 

(God-touched still their frank, bold blue) 

On the Helot — mark the rise 
Of the Bacchic riot through 

Knotted vein and surging breast : 
Mark the wild, insensate mirth : 

God-ward boast — the drivelling jest, 
Till he grovel to the earth. 



Canadian Verse 75 

" Drink, dull slave ! " the Spartan cried : 
Meek the Helot touched the brim ; 

Scented all the purple tide ; 
Drew the Bacchic soul to him. 

Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled : 
Couched beneath the weighted vine, 

Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child 
On the Helot and the wine. 

Rose pale Doric shafts behind. 

Stern and strong, and thro' and thro'. 

Weaving with the grape-breathed wind, 
Restless swallows called and flew. 

Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung 
On the fountains' murmuring brims ; 

To the bronzed vine Hermos clung — 
Silver-Kke his naked limbs 

Flashed and flushed : rich coppered leaves, 

Whitened by his ruddy hair ; 
Pallid as the marble eaves, 

Awed he met the Helot's stare. 

Clanged the brazen goblet down ; 

Marble-bred loud echoes stirred : 
With fixed fingers, knotted, brown. 

Dumb, the Helot grasped his beard. 

Heard the far pipes mad and sweet. 

All the ruddy hazes thrill : 
Heard the loud beam crash and beat 

In the red vat on the hill. 

Wide his nostrils as a stag's 

Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss : 
Red his lips as river flags 

From the strong Caecuban kiss. 



76 A Treasury of 

On his swarthy temples grew 

Purple veins like clustered grapes ; 

Past his rolling pupils blew 

Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes. 

Cold the haughty Spartan smiled — 
His the power to knit that day 

Bacchic fires, insensate, wild. 
To the grand Achean clay. 

His the might — hence his the right ! 

Who should bid him pause? nor Fate 
Warning passed before his sight. 

Dark-robed and articulate. . . . 

" Lo," he said, " he maddens now ! 

Flames divine do scathe the clod : 
Round his reeling Helot brow 

Stings the garland of the god." 



THE SWORD 

AT the forging of the sword — 
The mountain roots were stirred 
Like the heart-beats of a bird ; 
Like flax the tall trees waved. 
So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword. 

At the forging of the Sword — 
So loud the hammers fell. 
The thrice-sealed gates of Hell 
Burst wide their glowing jaws ; 

Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword. 

At the forging of the Sword — 

Kind mother Earth was rent 

Like an Arab's dusky tent. 

And monster-like she fed 
On her children, at the forging of the Sword. 



Canadian Verse "]"] 

At the forging of the Sword — 
The startled air swift whirled 
The red flames round the world, 
From the anvil where was smitten 

The steel the Forgers wrought into the Sword, 

At the forging of the Sword — 

The maid and matron fled, 

And hid them with the dead ; 

Fierce prophets sang their doom, 
More deadly than the wounding of the Sword. 

At the forging of the Sword — 
Swift leaped the quiet hearts 
In the meadows and the marts ; 
The tides of men were drawn 

By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword ! 

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome Sword ; 

On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought ; 
In such red flames thy metal fused ; 

From such deep hells that metal brought ; 
O Sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, 
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord ! 



"THESE THREE" 

A STAR leant down and laid a silver hand 
On the pale brow of death ; 
Before it roll'd black shadows from the land — 
That star was Faith ! 

Across fierce storms that hid the mountains far 

In funeral cope. 
Piercing the black there sailed a throbbing star 

The star was Hope ! 



78 A Treasury of 

From God's vast palm a large sun grandly rolled, 

O'er land and sea ; 
Its core of fire, its stretching hands of gold — 

Large Charity ! 



FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON 

THE BATTLE-CALL OF ANTI-CHRIST 

AFORETHOUGHT of the fated reign of peace 
Fell on the soul of Anti-Christ, I dreamed ; 
And his brow darkened, and his hate-lit eyes 
Aloft glared lurid through the mist of space. 
Then vast and shadowy rose the Lord of War, 
And shook his right hand at a far White Throne, 
Brooding unutterable blasphemies. 
Anon he gazed upon our shuddering world, 
The while, with voice that fires or freezes souls. 
He spake his message to the circling winds 
And roused to battle all his myrmidons : 

" Up, despot, trembling for a blood-bought crown ! 
The smouldering flame that threatens thine own 

house 
Hurl at another's ; lead thy people on 
By glory's flaring torches to their doom. 

(Ever the spear 
Pierces the spirit of the Prince of Peace !) 

" Yoke Victory to thy chariot and ride on, 
TrampHng the pride of nations. Conqueror ! 
Let thy maimed warriors writhe alone ; for thou 
Art scorn of God for His vile images. 

(And scorn of mine 
For Him who pleads for them at God's right hand.) 



Canadian Verse 



79 



" Pause not to reck the ruin thou hast made : 
Is not the comet's course foredoomed, and thine ? 
A deathless name outweighs a milHon deaths, 
And orphans' sighs are mute 'mid the acclaim 

Of multitudes. 
(What is the grief of Jesus unto thee ?) 



" Statesman, behold, thy trustful neighbors sleep, 
And rust is on their swords, your blades are sharp ! 
Swift and relentless press thy specious claim ; 
Not thine the toil or risk, thine the fame to win 

With others' blood. 
(That human blood that filled the veins of Christ !) 

' Flushed with a spotless triumph, patriots, 
From brave defence advance to stern revenge, 
And urge a war of conquest and bequeath 
A heritage of hatred to your sons. 

(For freedom's sake 
Stabbing His soul who ' came not to destroy ' !) 

' Wake, silent trump of holy discord ! Sword 
Of God and Gideon, hew the Gentiles down ! 
Slay, in your ruth for graceless babes unborn ! 
Clash, rival crosses, mock the Crucified ! 

Blaze, lethal fires ! 
(/will accept the incense that He loathes.) 

' Poets sublime who sway the souls of men ! 
Sing still of arms and human hecatombs, 
And wrath and glory and the pride of race ; 
Let rhymesters mumble of love, pity, peace. 

... (Sing ye the spear 

Ihat glances from its victims to Christ's heart.) 

And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught 
The soul of Revolution and enchained 



8o A Treasury of 

The fiery spirit in a song, thy strains 
Again shall stir rapt throngs to fratricide : 

' To arms ! to arms ! ' 
(Christ mocks me with His pity from His throne !) 

'' Sound trump and drum and fife and clarion, 
Sound, to the rhythmic march of warriors, 
With priestly benedictions on their pride 
And beauty's smiles upon their waving plumes. 

(Marching in pomp 
To wound the wearied spirit of their Christ !) 



' Oh, pygmy pomp and blazon of man's war ! 
When Michael strove with Satan 'mid the stars. 
There were seraphic deeds and agonies 
And not this earthly death ! Nathless I crave 

Unnumbered slain — 
The sin of His own slayers tortured Him ! 

" Hail to thy memory, war of wars, that jarred 
Awhile the calm of heaven, when Pride and Hate, 
Stung by the still rebuke of Love supreme. 
Rose, fought and fell ! And to thy memory hail. 

Symbolic spear, 
That wounded the dead Christ on Calvary ! 

" Dear is the murderer's dagger ; dear the rack 
That strains the frame of one who testifies 
With his last breath to Christ ; dearest the spear 
That stabbed Him on the Cross and stabs Him still, 

Each thrust a balm 
To soothe my sleepless memory in hell ! " 



Canadian Verse 8i 

JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE 

MY MOTHER 

nPHERE are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow, 
-■- Nor is there music in the quiring spheres, 
Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years, 
Recall the music of thy voice so low 

And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. 

But gone art thou. Ah ! how the bitter tears 
Burned deep into my heart ! How memory sears. 
But cannot heal those wounds, while tears still flow. 

Back from those bright and happy days gone by. 

Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song ! 

Thy guiding hand and presence then were nigh. 
And I am weary, and life's road seems wrong. 

I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. 

Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is long. 



MARGARET GILL CURRIE 

BY THE ST. JOHN 

npHE broad round-shouldered giant Earth 
-■- Upbears no land more sweet 
Than that whereon in heedless mirth 

Went free my childish feet ; 
No fairer river furroweth. 

With its strong steel-blue share, 
The hill-sides and the vales of earth, 

Than that which floweth there. 

For rigid fasting hermit John 
They named the glorious stream. 

As seamen on his holy morn 
Beheld its harbor's gleam. 

F 



82 A Treasury of 

It was like rigid hermit John, 
A voice amid the wild, 

Its honey and its fatness drawn 
From forests undefiled. 



Now that the green is on the plain, 

The azure in the sky. 
Wherewith clear sunshine after rain 

Decketh the rich July, 
Broad is the leaf and bright the flower ; 

Close to the pale gray sands 
Coarse alder grows, and virgin's bower 

Grasps it with slender hands. 



With honeysuckles, meadow-sweets, 

And rue the banks are lined ; 
O'er wide fields dance gay marguerites 

To pipe of merry wind. 
By the tall tiger-lily's side 

Stands the rich golden-rod, 
A king's son wooing for his bride, 

The daughter of a god. 

When fresh and bright were all green things. 

And June was in the sky, 
The dandelions made them wings, 

And did as riches fly ; 
Now the bright buttercups with gold 

Empave a toil-trod road — 
Can wayfarers their sheen behold 

Nor sigh for streets of God ? 

The birds are homed amid the boughs 

Of oak and elm trees grand ; 
As for the snipe, her lowly house 

She maketh in the sand ; 



Canadian Verse S^ 

The robin loves the dawning's hush, 

The eve's the chickadee, 
The thistle-bird the garden bush, 

The bobolink the lea. 

From intervale and swampy dale 

Are wafts of fragrance blown, 
Of fern and mint and calamus. 

And wild hay newly mown. 
God's fiery touch hath reached the earth. 

And lo ! its odors rise 
Like incense pure of priceless worth 

Offered in sacrifice. 



SARAH ANNE CURZON 

VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO 
LAURA SECORD 

NOW wherefore trembles still the string 
By lyric fingers crossed, 
To Laura Secord's praise and fame. 
When forty years are lost ? 

Nay, five and forty, one by one, 

Have borne her from the day 
When, fired by patriotic zeal. 

She trod her lonely way. 

Her hair is white, her step is slow. 

Why kindles then her eye, 
And rings her voice with music sweet 

Of many a year gone by ? 

O know ye not proud Canada, 

With joyful heart, enfolds 
In fond embrace the royal boy 

Whose line her fealty holds ? 



84 A Treasury of 

For him she spreads her choicest cheer, 
And tells her happiest tale, 

And leads him to her loveliest haunts, 
That naught to please may fail. 

And great art thou, O Chippewa, 
Though small in neighbours' eyes, 

When out Niagara's haze thou seest 
A cavalcade arise ; 

And in its midst the royal boy 
Who, smiling, comes to see 

An ancient dame whose ancient fame 
Shines in our history. 

He takes the thin and faded hand, 

He seats him at her side, 
Of all that gay and noble band 

That moment well the pride. 

To him the aged Secord tells. 

With many a fervid glow. 
How, by her means, FitzGibbon struck 

His great historic blow. 

Nor deem it ye, as many do, 

A weak and idle thing 
That at that moment Laura loved 

The praises of a king ; 

And dwelt on his approving smile, 

And kissed his royal hand, 
Who represented, and should wield. 

The sceptre of our land ; 

For where should greatness fire her torch 
If not at greatness' shrine ? 

And M'hence should approbation come 
Did not the gods incline ? 



Canadian Verse 85 



INVOCATION TO RAIN 

O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King, 
Where dost thou stay so long ? our sad hearts 
pine, 
Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes 
Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud 
Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn 
Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view 
Of distant panorama, wins our souls 
To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. 

Thy brother Spring is come. 
His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray — 
The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. 
Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves 
Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds 
Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path ; 
The dielytra puts her necklace on. 
Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. 
Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass 
Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. 
But thou ! — O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, 
That with thy free libations fill'st our cup ? 
The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note 
From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot 
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence 
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, 
And visits oft the bushes by the stream. 
But takes no mate. For why ? No leaves or tufts 
Are there to hide a house. . . . 

A-missing thee 
The husbandman goes forth with faltering step 
And dull sad eye ; his sweltering team pulls hard 
The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back 
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs 
The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering 

mould. 
The willows have a little tender green, 



86 A Treasury of 

And swallows cross the creek — the gurgling creek 

Now fallen to pools — but, disappointed, 

Dash away so swift, and fly so high 

We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land 

Doth mourn for thee. — 

Ah ! here thou comest, sweet Rain. 
Soft, tender Rain ! benison of the skies ! 
See now, what transformation in thy touch ! 
Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees 
Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms 
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift 
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white 
As angels' raiment. Little wood children 
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth 
Offers rich gifts. The little choristers 
Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman 
Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake 
And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. 
The earth is full of music ! Thou dost swing 
Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in 
The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads 
From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here ! " 
And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms. 
And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks, 
And the plover whistling in the fields. 
The little children dream of daisy chains. 
And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday, — 
A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. 
O, Rain ! O, soft, sweet Rain ! O liberal Rain ! 
Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become 
Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou. 



Canadian Verse 87 

NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN 

Fro7n " EOS " 

i\ OW the Fraser gleamed 
Below, its benches white with apple trees 
In bloom. 'Neath one an Indian stood, in hand 
A tom-tom rude, on which he beat, the while 
He sang in sad tones looking towards the sea. 
The children of his tribe impassive sat 
And smoked their deep-bowled long-stemmed pipes : 

With spread wings forever 

Time's eagle careers. 
His quarry old nations, 

His prey the young years ; 
Into monuments brazen 

He strikes his fierce claw, 
And races are only 

A sop for his maw. 

The red sun is rising 

Behind the dark pines, 
And the mountains are marked out 

In saffron lines. 
The pale moon still lingers. 

But past is her hour 
Over mountain and river 

Her silver to shower. 

As yon moon disappeareth, 

We pass and are past ; 
The Paleface o'er all things 

Is potent at last. 
He bores through the mountains, 

He bridges the ford. 
He bridles steam horses 

Where Bruin was lord, 



88 A Treasury of 

He summons the river 
Her wealth to unfold, 

From flint and from granite 
He crushes the gold. 



Those valleys of silence 

Will soon be alive 
With huxters who chaffer, 

Prospectors who strive, 
And the house of the Paleface 

Will peer from the crest 
Of the cliff, where the eagle 

To-day builds his nest. 



The Redskin he marred not 

White fall on wild rill. 
But to-morrow those waters 

Will turn a mill ; 
And the streamlet which flashes 

Like a young squaw's dark eye. 
Will be black with foul refuse. 

Or may be run dry. 

From the sea where the Father 

Of waters is lost. 
To the sea where all summer 

The iceberg is tost, 
The white hordes will swarm 

And the white man will sway. 
And the smoke of his engine 

Make swarthy the day. 

Round the mound of a brother 

In sadness we pace, 
How much sadder to stand 

At the grave of a race ! 



Canadian Verse 89 

But the good Spirit knows 

What for all is the best, 
And which should be chosen, 

The strife or the rest. 

As for me, I'm time-weary, 

I await my release ; 
Give to others the struggle, 

Grant me but the peace, — 
And what peace like the peace 

Which death offers the brave ? 
What rest like the rest 

That we find in the grave ? 

For the doom of the hunter 

There is no reprieve ; 
And for me, 'mid strange customs, 

'Tis bitter to live. 
Our part has been played 

Let the white man play his ; 
Then he too disappears, 

And goes down the abyss. 
Yes ! Time's eagle will prey 

On the Paleface at last. 
And his doom like our own 

Is to pass and be past. 



A. B. DE MILLE 
THE ICE KING 

WHERE the world is gray and lone 
Sits the Ice King on his throne- 
Passionless, austere, afar, 
Underneath the Polar Star. 



90 A Treasury of 

Over all his splendid plains 
An eternal stillness reigns. 



Silent creatures of the North, 

White and strange and fierce, steal forth : 

Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair, 
Noiseless birds that wing the air, 

Souls of seamen dead, who lie 
Stark beneath the pale north sky ; 

Shapes to living eye unknown. 

Wild and shy, come round the throne 

Where the Ice King sits in view 
To receive their homage due. 

But the Ice King's quiet eyes, 
Calm, implacable, and wise, 

Gaze beyond the silent throng, 
With a steadfast look and long, 

Down to where the summer streams 
Murmur in their golden dreams ; 

Where the sky is rich and deep. 

Where warm stars bring down warm sleep, 

Where the days are, every one. 

Clad with warmth and crowned with sun. 

And the longing gods may feel 
Stirs within his heart of steel, 



Canadian Verse 

And he yearns far forth to go 
From his land of ice and snow. 



But forever, gray and lone, 
Sits the Ice King on his throne- 



Passionless, austere, afar, 
Underneath the Polar Star. 



BALLAD 

GOOD Christmas bells, I pray you 
Ring him back to me ; 
For I am in the village, 
And he is on the sea. 

And out beyond the harbor 
The surf is playing white ; 

Good Christmas bells, I pray you 
Ring him home to-night ! 

The reef beyond the harbor 

Is girt with hungry foam ; 
Good Christmas bells, I pray you 

Ring my sailor home ! 

The lighthouse in the harbor 
Burns clear, and keen, and still ; 

But a sound is in the village, 
A voice is on the hill : 

The voice of distant surges, 

And he is on the sea — 
Good Christmas bells, I pray you 

Ring him back to me ! 



92 A Treasury of 

JAMES DE MILLE 

From "BEHIND THE VEIL" 



S°^ 



ON of Light," — I murmured lowly — 
All my heart is known to thee — 
Known unto thy vision holy — 
All my longing and my yearning for the Loved One 

lost to me — 
May these eyes again behold her ? " — and the Shape 
said, "Come and see." 

'Twas a voice whose intonation 

Through my feeble being thrilled 
With a solemn, sweet vibration, 
And at once a holy calmness all my wakeful senses 

stilled. 
And my heart beat faint and fainter, with a dying 
languor filled. 

Then a sudden sharp convulsion 

Seized me with resistless might. 
Till before that fierce compulsion 
All mortality departed ; like a Thought, a thing of 

Light, 
All my spirit darted up to an immeasurable height. 

I beheld bright visions darting 

Past, in long and quick review, 
Quick arriving, quick departing ; 
Mortal sense had grown immortal, and I saw not, but 

I knew, 
And that spiritual sense was Knowledge, Absolute 
and True. 

And there came amazement o'er me 

In that infinite career, 
For the scenes that rushed before me, 



Canadian Verse 



93 



Long removed, but long remembered, brought me 

memories old and dear. 
Bearing sweet familiar faces from that far terrestrial 

sphere. 



For the spell of earth had bound me, 

And each quickly gliding scene 
Brought the shapes of earth around me ; — 
Vales of bright unclouded verdure; hills arrayed in 

living green ; 
Limpid lakes in dim recesses overarched by skies 
serene ; 



Cooling rill and sparkling fountain, 
Purple peak and headland bold. 
Precipice and snow-clad mountain — 
Lofty summits rising grandly into regions clear and 

cold, 
And innumerable rivers that majestically rolled. 



By such wondrous scenes surrounded. 

O'er them all mine eyes I ran, 
All bewildered and confounded ; 
Yet I sought amid that wonder all its mystery to 

scan. 
Till amid the forms of Nature I beheld the face of 
Man. 



I beheld fair cities gleaming 

White on many a distant shore, 
And the battle banners streaming, 
And the pomp of mighty armies in the panoply of 

War, 
And the navies of the nations speeding all the Ocean 
o'er. 



94 A Treasury of 

But the human form and faces 

Older still and older grew ; 
Races followed fast on races, 
Vanished peoples seemed to rise again and robe 

themselves anew, 
And the life and acts of all the ages passed in swift 
review. 

Olden populations swarming 

In an outward rushing tide. 
Scattering o'er the earth and forming 
Lines of march o'er lofty mountains, over deserts wild 

and wide, 
Seeking evermore a country where they might in 
peace abide. 

Then there came unpeopled spaces 

Which no human token bore. 
And the pathway of the races 
Lessened slowly and diminished on the plain and on 

the shore, 
Till at last amid the Vision came the form of Man no 
more. 

And bereaved of man and lonely 
Nature showed her aspect fair, 
And the brute creation only 
Peopled all her wilds and woodlands — lurked the tiger 

in his lair. 
Coiled the serpent, sprang the lion, sped the bird 
athwart the air. 

Myriad scenes in swift succession 

Still with earnest gaze I viewed ; 
But in rapid retrogression 
Nature faded; — forms of beauty followed fast by 

figures rude, 
Ending in the dismal prospect of a world-wide solitude. 



Canadian Verse 95 

But my soul the vast procession 
Of those countless vistas bore 
With a marvellous impression, 
Like the picture on the tablet by the sunbeam painted 

o'er 
Instantaneous ; all-embracing ; with a power unknown 
before. 

Then my Heavenly Guide addressing — 

For a wondrous power had birth 
In my nature, all expressing — 
" What are these, and where belong they ? " — and ray 

Guide responded — " Earth — 
For thy spirit turns spontaneous to its own domestic 
hearth." 

" Where am I, O Radiant Spirit ? 

Where amid the realms of space ? 

Distant from the Earth, or near it ? " — 

" Where the rays projected from it at the birth-time of 

thy race 
Have not yet attained ; — a distance more than mortal 
thought may trace." 

" Whence these shapes of things terrestrial ? " — 

" Shadows from the Earth that fall, 
Gliding into space celestial " — 
" Does the Earth thus tell her story ; — thus are all 

things imaged ? " — " All — 
Forms and actions all are imaged ; naught is hidden, 
great or small." 

— " They at last are dissipated," — 

I exclaimed in sorrow sore, 
— "At the brink of things created?" — 
— " Things created know no limit ; infinite space they 

traverse o'er ; 
Still the starry vistas open and recede for evermore." — 



96 A Treasury of 

Then a mighty woe came o'er me, 

Deep despair arose within, 
And a thought stood black before me — 
Shall Infinity forever write the records of my sin? 
Is it thus that space shall treasure proofs of all that 
I have been ? 



EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART 

SHADOWS ON THE CURTAIN 

I AWOKE from the dreams of the night. 
From restful and tranquil repose. 
And looked where the sunbeams lay bright, 

To see what the morn might disclose. 
My window looked out on the east. 
And opened to welcome the sun. 
As he rose, from the darkness released, 
All girded, his journey to run. 
I watched, as I lay. 
The leaf-shadows play — 
For the trees were still mantled in green — 
As they silently danced, 
Curvetted and pranced. 
On the curtain suspended between. 

Then I said to my soul : Here's some thought 

For thee to decipher and read ; 
Every form, that in nature is wrought, 

Bears some lesson to those who give heed. 
Between our weak eyes and the light 

A thick-woven curtain is spread ; 
All the future it screens from our sight. 

And the home and the fate of the dead. 
The phantoms which still 
With perplexity chill, 



Canadian Verse 97 

Which doubting despondency brings, 

Are cast, as they shine, 

By the sunbeams divine, 
And are shadows of beautiful things. 

Then I drew the broad curtain aside, 

And looked out on the beautiful world ; 
The dewdrops were flashing, and wide 

Were the banners of beauty unfurled. 
The leaves that had silently flung 

Their shadows to darken my room. 
Each answered with musical tongue 

To the zephyrs that played with its bloom. — 
And thus it may be 
At life's ending with me, 
When death rends the curtain away ; 
I may rise to behold 
In beauty unrolled 
The morn of a shadowless day. 



ON THE OTTAWA 

THE sun has gone down in liquid gold 
On the Ottawa's gleaming breast ; 
And the silent night has softly rolled 
The clouds from her starry vest ; 
Not a sound is heard — 
Every warbling bird 
Has silenced its tuneful lay, 
As with calm delight. 
In the moon's weird light, 
I noiselessly float away. 

As down the river I dreamily glide — 
The sparkling and moonlit river — 

Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide. 
Not a leaf is heard to quiver ; 

G 



98 A Treasury of 

The lamps of night 

Shed their trembling light, 
With a tranquil and silvery glory, 

Over river and dell, 

Where the zephyrs tell 
To the night their plaintive story. 

I gently time my gleaming oar 

To music of joy-laden strains, 
Which the silent woods and listening shore 
Re-echo in soft refrains : — 
Let holy thought 
From this tranquil spot 
Float up through the slumbering air ; 
For who would profane 
With fancies vain 
A scene so ineffably fair ! 



FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON 

A FEATHER'S MESSAGE 

AT the close of the day, when the year was a-dying, 
From the chilly north to the southern sun, 
High in the sky came the wild swans flying — 
(Great white wings had each glorious one), — 
And a snowy feather fluttered down 
On the muddy street of a dirty town. 

Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding ; 

Business and pleasure turned their wheels ; 
But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding. 
Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels. 

And the message it brought remained untold. 
Save to a child with a head of gold. 



Canadian Verse 99 

Up in a garret, all tearfully fretting, 

She peeped in her rags through the broken pane ; 
And she clapped her hands with delight, forgettin^^ 
Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain, "" * 

As the strange white thing caught her wondering 

eye, 
Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky. 

And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven, 

(Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf) : 
" Look, mother, look ! Here's a letter from Heaven ! 
God didn't forget us— He's written Himself ! " 



Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down 
On the muddy street of a dirty town ? 



HINC ILL^ LACHRYM^ 

{Hence these tears) 

T AST night, and there came a guest, 
J—/ And we shuddered, my wife and I ; 
A guest, and I could not speak ; 
A guest, and she could but cry ; 
And he went, but with no good-bye. 

A little before the dawn 

He came, but he did not stay ; 

And he left us alone with our tears, 
For he carried our babe away. 
Was there ever a sadder day ! 

Had you ever a babe of a year. 
With curls on a tiny head. 

With limbs like the peach's bloom. 

And learnt that your babe was dead ?— - 
Could you have been comforted ? 



Life. 



loo A Treasury of 

Had it bound itself to your heart, 
As with fairy gossamer strand, 
^ SHght as that of the worm, 

Strong as the hempen band 
Which holds tall ships to the land ? 



Did you look in its baby eyes 

As your treasure lay on your knee, 

And wonder what things they saw^, 
And see, what they could not see. 
The life that was yet to be ? 



Did it lie at your breast day by day 

While you gathered it near and more near ? 

Did it sleep on your bosom by night, 
Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear, — 
Your darling, your babe of a year ; 

While you dreamed of the wonder you held, 

A thing of so perfect a plan. 
Of the wonderful mystery of birth, 

Of the wonderful mystery of man. 

As only a mother can, — 

Till your heart, like a human thing. 

Seemed to yearn for the child at your side- 
Yearn to gather it in to itself, 

To the love that swept up, like a tide 
Whose fulness is ever denied ? 

If to you came that terrible guest 
We so dreaded, my wife and I, 

You will know why I could not speak. 
You will know why she could but cry — 
You have seen your own baby die. 



Canadian Verse loi 

WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND 

THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE 

I READ on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about 
Jubilee 
An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across 

de sea, 
Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far 

away 
For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her 
bonne sant6. 

An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens 

should be dere 
Wit' res' of de worl' for shout " Hooraw " an' t'row 

hees cap on de air, 
Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel 

lak de oder do. 
For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapr^ fou. 

Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very 

strange it seem 
For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien 

Regime, 
From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole 

^ St Malo, 
Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat 

also. 

De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole 

contree, 
Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de 

beeg, beeg sea, 
Killin' an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't 

know w'at for, 
W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de 

crazy war. 



I02 A Treasury of 

Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey 

don't fight no more, 
An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang ! jus' 

lak' she was before. 
Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' 

dey can beat us, too, 
But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got 

enough to do. 

An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was 

know de peace, 
Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St 

Maurice ; 
Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave 

Generale Montcalm 
Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham. 

Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us 

stayin' dere 
Were we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' 

from Angleterre. 
Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens 

is cry, 
But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all 

right bimeby. 

If de moder come dead w'en you're small gargon, 

leavin' you dere alone, 
Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, and hurt youse'f 

on de stone. 
An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' 

your own moder do, 
Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you 

don't love her too ? 

Ba non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole 

Regime's no more, 
An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y 

it's jus' lak' it be before, 



Canadian Verse 103 

Spikin' Fran9ais lak' we alway do, an' de English dey 

mak no fuss, 
An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas 

better mebbe for us. 

So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere 

ban' in ban', 
Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' 

de Englishman, 
For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it 

agen an' agen, 
Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', 

bes' frien'. 

So we're kipin' so quiet long afifer dat, w'en las' of de 

fightin's done, 
Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to 

shoot de gun ; 
But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so 

he's firs' fin' mistak' wan day — 
W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hae's ban', near 

place dey call Chateaugay. 

Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De 

Salaberry be dere 
Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two bonder 

Voltiguers, 
Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' 

so hard dey can 
But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky 

Yankee man ! 

Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw, we alway 

be treat dem well. 
For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes, an' 

stay on de bes' hotel, 
Den " Bienvenu," we will spik dem, an' " Come back 

agen nex' week, 
So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de 

politique ? " 



104 A Treasury of 

Yaas, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee, 
Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on 

de familee, 
An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on 

sea or Ian', 
She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' 

Englishman. 

An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag 

was fly — 
Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev 

an' die. 
Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' 

on Chateaugay, 
An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we 

will kip alway ! 



JOHN HUNTER DUVAR 

JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY 
(^He becomes a Carmelite) 

TAKE not from me my lute ! 
There is a spirit caught among its wires 
That sentient thrills as if with living fires, — 
Freres ! let me keep my lute. 

It may not be ? ah, well, — 

Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string ! 
That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell, 
And talk'st to me with voice of hving thing. 
Sad now art thou and I — 

Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die. 



Canadian Verse 105 

Ring out the clash of swords ! 

The meeting shock ! ring out the victor's strain ! 
Or dirge, when peasants tramp o'er knights and 

lords, — 
Jarring when the war trumpet blows amain, 
And scattered all afield 
The shivered lance-shaft and the shattered shield. 



Ring out to ladies' eyes ! 

To love's wild ecstasy of joy and woe, 
To morning's mantling blush, to passionate sighs 
That heave the rose-tipped mamelons of snow, 
To gage d'amor, I ween. 
That wakes the rapturous thought of — once hath 
been. 

Ring out the words of fire ! 

'Gainst pride and hate and tyranny the strong, 
'Gainst proud man's arrogance, and weak man's 

ire. 
And all the lusts that work the world wrong, 
'Gainst envy, lie and ill 
Ring out protest once more, and then be still ! 

Wake gently softer themes ! 

Of white-frocked children dead on cottage floors, 
Of dances 'neath the jasmine-clustered beams, 
Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors, 
Of immortelles on graves. 

Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves. 

This world hath been so fair, 

So full of joyousness ! Then what am I 
That I should thankless spurn God's blessed air 
And shut my lids against the sunshine sky ? 
But that is idle breath. 

Life may be quiet, even if life in death. 



io6 A Treasury of 

Dying as echo dies, 

Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay, 
And though my Lays have not been overwise 
Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray. 
Our mission now is o'er, 

O Soul of Song ! fly free ! N o more. No more. 



Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things. 
But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's, 
No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords — 

Thus — thus — I rive thy strings ! 



THE MINNESINGERS LIED 

IN the Rheingan standeth Aix, 
And in Aix is La Chapelle ; 
On a royal marble dais, 

Underneath a vaulted dome. 
With his feet upon a tomb, 

Sits a dread and fearsome Thing 
As ever minstrel-poet sang ! 

Dead two hundred years ! a King 
On his throne sits Charlemagne 
In his capital of Aix ! 



In awful state that mighty Shade 

Sitteth in its chair of stone ; 
In the hand, long ages dead. 

The sword with unsheathed blade 
And sceptre bright with gems ; 

On the breast a cross of lead. 
On the form a golden gown. 

And circling on his head 
The French and German diadems 
And the Lombard crown ! 



Canadian Verse 107 

And throughout the centuries old, 

Underneath the vaulted dome, 
With his feet upon a tomb. 

Alone and ghastly, stern and cold. 
In silence save when midnight tolls 

And its heavy murmur rolls 
All among the columns round 

With a solemn measured clang, — 
In the silentness profound. 

Sits the shade of Charlemagne 
Armed and crowned ! 

HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT 
DOWN INTO EGYPT 

IVriLUS ! Nilus ! and before them rolled 
-'- ^ The mystic river, while a barge of gold 
Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier, 
From which the King embarked with all his 
train. 
The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear 

From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain. 
And they were floating upon Nile the old. 

Full bravely led the galley of the King, 
And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing, 

Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars 

And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed ; 
While slow unrolled the low and level shores, 
Like to a landscape on a curtain limned, 
And blended with the shadows, lessening. 

Music was on the Nile boats : conch and horn. 
Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn 
Took up the keynote from the leading barge, 

And part and counterpart in measured strain, 
In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge. 
The while the swelling chorus grew amain 
And inland o'er the standing rice was borne. 



io8 A Treasury of 

Along the shore, as down the mystic river 
Floated the King, the boughs without a shiver 
Drooped in the breathless air, and ibises 

And birds of scarlet plumage waded grave ; 
While small deer, timorous as their nature is, 
And panthers, to the brink came down to lave, 
But drew back as they saw the oar-blades quiver. 

Along the burnished water meadow flowers 
Floated, and buds with berries, which the scours 
Of melted torrents, moons ago, had shred 

From Afric's inland mountain range of snows, 
And torn up with the rich mould from its bed 
And brought to Egypt when the waters rose 
To pour into her lap full harvest dowers. 

The cortege passed the swamp of crocodiles, 
And labyrinth of submerged bulrush isles, 
With matted lilies growing on the ooze. 

While round the shallow bars the eddies swum. 
All changeless, as in old time when the Jews 
Mustered at beat of the Egyptian drum 
And laid their tale of brick upon the piles. 

Upon the left bank of the river loomed 
A massive wall where Pharaohs lay entombed 
With their deeds vaguely limned in hieroglyph, 

In tincts of vivid azure, green and red. 
Ochre and vermeil, — standing stark and stiff 
Their rigid forms ; while 'mong the mummied 
dead 
The frogs croaked and the woeful bittern boomed. 

As they swept on they saw a form of stone 
Cleaving the yellow sky-line, stern and lone 
And awful, so no man might bear to dwell 

'Neath its eyes glaring with unwinking lids. 
As if of beings it alone could tell 
The giant mystery of the pyramids 
Ere centuries of sand had round them blown. 



Canadian Verse 



109 



Now on the left bank of the river's flow, 
Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow 
With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets 

Uprose a city walled, in proud estate. 
Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets 
The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate 
And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo. 



ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON 
EATON 

THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS 

(NYMPHiEA lotus) 

pROUD, languid lily of the sacred Nile, 
J- 'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave, 
Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile, 
Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave. 

O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay. 
And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand, 
Where Alexandrian barges plow their way. 
Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land. 

On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen. 
And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls, 
Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen 
Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls ; 

Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake 

As regally, amidst these common things. 

As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break. 

As in the halls of old Egyptian kings. 



no A Treasury of 

Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes, 
But he who finds in thought his richest feasts, 
Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise 
About him, and long lines of white-robed priests, 

That chant strange music as they slowly pace 
Dim, columned aisles ; hears trembling over head 
Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space, 
Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead. 

Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined. 
Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee, 
For this majestic orient faith enshrined 
Man's yearning hope of immortality. 

And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power 
That under all decaying forms lies hid ; 
The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower ! 
Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid. 



PURPLE ASTERS 

I HAD a garden when I was a boy 
Wherein I planted fondly many a flower. 
And watched it grow until I felt the joy 
That every gardener feels, as Nature's power 
To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green 
And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen. 



In that old garden, bright with varied bloom 
From early tulip time till winter fell. 
It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom 
Had any place, or could desire to dwell ; 
Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway. 
And there, I always felt, a shadow lay. 



Canadian Verse m 

In that strange spot pale purple asters came, 
When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast, 
And fields were ripe, and autumn's flood of flame 
From scarlet maples swept from east to west ; 
They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom, 
But seemed meet products of great Nature's gloom. 

The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil 

Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue 

As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower's strong 

coil 
Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue ; 
But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside, 
Pale purple fringed asters love to hide. 

They tell us there are gardens always clad 
With summer's richest robes, awaiting men 
Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad. 
And never to low levels sink again ; 
Perhaps even such light ]ands may need to see 
The purple asters of despondency. 



DEEPENING THE CHANNEL 

A ROCKY channel from the harbor led 
The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound 
With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed 
The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground. 
The channel must be deepened, men agree. 

And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew. 
And all the sleepy sands were dredged ; till, free 
From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through. 

We fret and foam as if our surface tide 

Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth 
Till love or sorrow through the water ride 

And grate its keel upon the sands of youth ; 
God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue, 
And then his noblest ships sail safely through. 



112 A Treasury of 



THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE 
BAIE DES CHALEURS 

'HpIS the laughter of pines that swing and sway 
-1- Where the breeze from the land meets the 
breeze from the bay ; 
'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide 
In ripples that reach to the forest side ; 
'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen, 
Plying through tangled seaweed green 
O'er the Bale des Chaleurs. 

Who has not heard of the phantom light 
That over the moaning waves, at night, 
Dances and drifts in endless play, 
Close to the shore, then far away, 
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, 
Cold as the winter light that lies 

On the Bale des Chaleurs ? 



They tell us that many a year ago. 
From lands where the palm and the olive grow, 
Where vines with their purple clusters creep 
Over the hillsides gray and steep, 
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold. 
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old, 
For valorous deeds and courage rare. 
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair 
To the Baie des Chaleurs. 

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, 
A murderous band as e'er could be. 
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, 
That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, 
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there. 
And sank the ship and its freight so fair 
In the Baie des Chaleurs. 



Canadian Verse 113 

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell : 
They say that a ball of fire fell 
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, 
Lighting the bay from shore to shore ; 
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan, 
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone 
Of the Baie des Chaleurs. 



That was the last of the pirate crew ; 

But many a night a black flag flew 

From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed 

By a spectre band that wept and wailed 

For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on 

the land, 
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand 
Of the Baie des Chaleurs. 

This is the tale of the phantom light 

That fills the mariner's heart, at night. 

With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, 

Now by the shore, then far away. 

Fierce as the flame in sunset skies. 

Cold as the winter moon that lies 

On the Baie des Chaleurs. 



THE MEADOW LANDS 

THE tide flows in and out and leaves 
Its richness on the meadow lands, 
The furrowed surface-soil upheaves, 
And sprinkles life among the sands. 

Across the meadow lands of life 
The tide of time flows and recedes. 

Its muddy wave brings woe and strife, 
But forms the soil for noble deeds. 



114 A Treasury of 

The tide flows in and out and Vjrings 
New beauty to the meadow lands, 

With lavish tenderness it flings 

Fair flowers across the silver sands. 



MY PUREST LONGINGS SPRING 

MY purest longings spring 
From the divine, 
The sweetest songs I sing 
They are not mine. 

I chisel the rude stone 

With trembling hand, 
The statue comes alone 

At God's command. 

Beyond earth's tainted air 

I sometimes fly 
On wings of faith and prayer ; 

Yet 'tis not I. 

Not I but He who lights 
My flickering creeds ; 

The Power that writes 
My broken deeds. 

Not I but God ; for He, 

My larger life. 
Fulfils Himself in me 

With ceaseless strife. 



I WATCH THE SHIPS 

I WATCH the ships by town and lea 
With sails full set glide out to sea, 
Till by the distant light-house rock 
The breakers beat with roar and shock 



Canadian Verse 115 

And foam fierce flying o'er their decks, 
While deep below lie ocean's wrecks ; 
What careth she ? 

I stand beside the beaten quay 
And look while laden ships from sea 
Come proudly home upon the tide 
Like conquering kings at eventide, 
Or from fierce fights with wintry gales 
Steal shoreward now with tattered sails ; 
O cruel seal 

I pass once more the old gray pier 
Where men have waited many a year 
For ships that ne'er again shall glide 
By town and lea on favoring tide, — 
Strong ships that struggled till the gales 
Of winter hid their shrouds and sails 
In ocean drear. 

Soft sailing spirits, how they glide 
Forth on life's fitful sea untried 
To breast the waves and bear the shocks 
Beyond the guarded light-house rocks, 
To strive and struggle many a year ; 
Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear 
Life's wind and tide. 

I watch beside life's beaten quay 
The tides bring back all joyously 
To anchor by the sheltered shore 
Some freighted full with golden store 
From rich spice-fields and perfumed sands 
Of soft, luxuriant tropic lands ; 
O kindly sea ! 

But some have met with wintry gales, 
And come at last with shattered sails 



ii6 A Treasury of 

To anchor by the old gray pier ; 
While loving ones in hope and fear 
Wait on for some that never more 
Shall anchor by a peaceful shore ; 
O sad, sad sea ! 



JAMES DAVID EDGAR 
THIS CANADA OF OURS 

LET other tongues in older lands 
Loud vaunt their claims to glory, 
And chaunt in triumph of the past, 

Content to live in story. 
Tho' boasting no baronial halls, 

Nor ivy-crested towers, 
What past can match thy glorious youth, 
Fair Canada of ours ? 
Fair Canada, 
Dear Canada, 
This Canada of ours ! 

We love those far-off ocean Isles 

Where Britain's monarch reigns ; 
We'll ne'er forget the good old blood 

That courses through our veins ; 
Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name. 

And haughty Albion's powers, 
Reflect their matchless lustre on 
This Canada of ours. 
Fair Canada, 
Dear Canada, 
This Canada of ours ! 

May our Dominion flourish then, 

A goodly land and free, 
Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand. 

Hold sway from sea to sea ; 



Canadian Verse 117 

Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes 

When darkest danger lowers, 
And with our life-blood we'll defend 
This Canada of ours. 
Fair Canada, 
Dear Canada, 
This Canada of ours ! 



CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS 

THE JUNCTION 

HERE, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts, 
The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze 
On what appears to be a wilderness 
Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern. 
" What place is this," they ask, " so bleak and bald ? 
Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare ; 
The gaunt frame of this time-worn world ! " Such 

words. 
Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips. 
But the drear wayside maketh no reply. 
Yet look ! the train moves on ; the funnel snorts, 
And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air ; 
From the new point of sight the scoffer sees 
Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste — 
Calm ponds reflecting Heaven's own lovely blue, 
With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks. 



HALIFAX 

FACING the ocean, guardian of our land. 
Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foam 
Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand, 
While salt winds waft sea-odors o'er our home. 



ii8 A Treasury of 

All the round year the tramp of armed men, 
Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night, 

And martial music, tell us o'er again 

That Britain guards us with a jealous might. 



THOSE FAR-OFF FIELDS 

THOSE far-off fields, how fair they seem, 
As soft through mists of years they gleam ! 
We never now around us see 
Such meads as those of olden be ; 
We never find a lake or stream 
One half so lovely as we deem 
Those which we only view in dream, 
Watering the fields of memory — 

Those far-off fields ! 

And we were happy then ! The theme 

Of our existence, love supreme : 

And looking back on Fate's decree — 
On all that happened you and me — 

We sigh — for dear our souls esteem 

Those far-off fields ! 



JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN 

THE AURORA BOREALIS 

AS the twilight's gray was swallowed 
In the depths of night that followed, 
And the hand of darkness hollowed 
Furrows deep along the land, 
Distant bells in sheepfold tinkled. 
Million stars in azure twinkled. 
Over mountain-peaks that stand 

Like giants swarth and grand. 



Canadian Verse 

In the north behold a flushing; 
Then a deep and crimson blushing ; 
Followed by an airy rushing 

Of the purple waves that rise ! 
As when armed host advances, 
See, a silver banner dances, 
And a thousand golden lances 
Shimmer in the Boreal skies ! 

The vision slowly dies ! 

Now, in bright prismatic splendor, 
Comes a picture still more tender. 
As a curtain white and slender 

Falls across the space afar ; 
Where its lacy folds are ending, 
With the black of distance blending. 
Are its miles of fringe descending, 
Hanging from a golden bar — 

Pinned to heaven by a star ! 

Like a monster roused from sleeping. 
First to westward slowly creeping, 
Then, in headlong fury, sweeping, 

Rushed a mammoth cloud of black ; 
Rolling upward, plunging, lashing. 
Through the fairy curtain dashing. 
With a thousand beauties flashing 
O'er its phosphorescent back — 

Endless streamers in its track ! 

Visions of Arabian story ; 
Crimson fields of battle gory ; 
In kaleidoscopic glory, 

Shifting, fading, restless tents ; 
Fairy armies wild in motion ; 
Jewelled shrines of strange devotion ; 
And a greenish, tideless ocean. 
Bound by ice-clad mounts and dents, 

Saw we through the curtain's rents ! 



119 



I20 A Treasury of 

Transformations still beholding, 
Up the veil is swiftly folding — 
And fantastic shapes are moulding 

On the background of the sky ; 
Dimmer armies are parading,— 
Fainter wreaths the light is braiding, 
While the splendors all are fading 
Into one deep purple dye, 

Disappearing from the eye ! 



WILLIAM HENRY FULLER 

A SONG OF THE SEA 

I'LL sing you a Song of the Sea ! 
With the waves sparkling bright, 
And the breeze blowing light, 
And our dear native land on the lee, 
How glad is the Song of the Sea ! 
With friends looking out from the quay. 
Their kerchiefs and hands waving free, 
And bright smiles and welcome for thee, 

How glad ! how glad ! 
How glad is the Song of the Sea ! 

I'll sing you a Song of the Sea ! 
When the skies lour dark 
O'er the plague-stricken bark 
As she drifts on the desolate sea. 
How sad is the Song of the Sea ! 
When overhead hangs the dun cloud, 
Like a pall o'er the dead sailor's shroud 
As he sinks in the vast wandering sea, 

How sad ! how sad ! 
How sad is the Song of the Sea ! 



Canadian Verse 121 

I'll sing you a Song of the Sea ! 
When the fierce lightnings flash, 
And the stormy waves dash, 
And the rocky shore looms on the lee, 
How dread is the Song of the Sea ! 
When the hearts of the bravest will quail 
As they shrink from the furious gale 
And the wrath of the menacing sea, 

How dread ! how dread ! 
How dread is the Song of the Sea ! 



ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE 

From "PHANTASY" 

FANCY many forms assumes ! 
'Tis a bee among the blooms, 
In the noon of June, that sips 
Honey from the heart and lips 
Of Anacreon's glorious rose. 
Now how warily it goes 
Past grim dragons to the trees 
Growing in Hesperides ! 
And anon with Jason hears 
Sirens' luring song, and steers 
Straightway from the fatal shore, 
While each rower strains his oar. 
'Tis a bat at twilight still. 
Flitting round a lonesome mill ; 
'Tis a falcon fleet that flies 
Into depths of opal skies ; 
Oft it is a sullen owl — 
Pallas' learned pensive fowl. 
Hooting hoarsely 'mong the trees ; 
And again, o'er troubled seas 
As a petrel bold it wings 
Tirelessly. Sometimes it sings 



122 A Treasury of 

Lark-like in the heavens' scope 
When dew gleams on grassy slope. 
Roaming meadows, daisy-decked, 
'Tis a child afoot, unchecked. 
Gladness in her azure eyes, 
As she sees with mute surprise 
Brooding birds in hedges' heart. 
Building nests with simple art. 
And at dawning, near a mere, 
Girdled by the bulrush spear, 
Fancy as a heron stalks 
Heedful of the hated hawks. 
Fancy is a butterfly 
Born to live brief life and die. 
'Tis a pink-lipped shell afloat. 
Fit for tiny fairy's boat ; 
Fair in fiction, false in fact, 
Shunned by men who are exact. 
Loved by poet whom it guides 
When on Pegasus he rides ; 
Lover's joy when maid is true, 
Lover's woe when, stricken through 
With sharp dart, his trust is slain ! 
Bright and dark and bright again. 
Phantom ! none thy face may paint, 
Since — now sinner, and then saint — 
Thou dost peer from cowl or crown, 
Now with smile, anon with frown. 
Sweet Sprite ! thou alone canst trace 
Airy pictures of thy face ; 
Thou who limnest Rosamond, 
Guinevere, and Juliet fond. 
Fancy, Fancy, come and charm, 
Grasped by clutch of graven gold, 
Jove's fetters, her to have and hold ! 
This swift Ariel serves us well, 
Lets us in the glamour's spell, 
Drink beside Bacchante fair. 
Toy with Pyrrha's braided hair, 



Canadian Verse 123 

Hear Apollo's matchless lute 

And the twy-formed Faun's soft flute ; 

Shows us Aphrodite rise 

From foamy seas to sunny skies, 

Leads us down the track of Time, 

Bears us into every clime ; 

Often paces kirkyard green 

Mourning in her garb and mien, 

Mingles with the dancing crowd, 

Broiders banners, weaves a shroud, 

Keeps a fast or festival — 

Lean Lent here, there — Carnival 

Starves or surfeits, Fancy free. 

Sojourning in Italy. 

As an Arab, lo ! how calm 

Under frondage of the palm ; 

Like a Norseman, winter-bound, 

(Lest he be in dulness drowned) ; 

Over ice on skate-blades whirs 

Past the shaggy, sombre firs. — 

Ha, my Fancy ! art thou mad, 

Or with Folly's mantle clad ? 



PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON 

From " THE HEROINE OF ST JOHN " 



"npIS dawn; but not such morning-tide 
J- As we had guessed the eve before : 
Armed ships within our harbor ride. 
And armed men are on the shore. 

But these are not the ships, or men. 
That sailed with Sieur La Tour away : 

Ah, no, their vengeful chief we ken, — 
Accurst D'Aulnay de Charnise ! 



124 A Treasury of 

Now quick the drum is beat to arms ; 

We run the flag of France on high ; 
The battle fierce each bosom warms, 

And adds a Hght to every eye. 

And forth our lady chieftain came, 
All fearless from her chaste alcove ; 

But first she snatched from duty's claim 
One moment for a mother's love ; — 

One moment pressed her darling child, 
And kissed its slumbers with a tear ; 

One moment more from warfare wild — 
She breathed a brief impassioned prayer ; 

Then to the ramparts hied in haste, 
To personate her absent lord, — 

A baldrick o'er her swelling breast. 
And by her side a pendant sword. 

With glowing cheek, and eye that gleamed, 
And voice forbidding all alarm, 

Yet graceful, beautiful, she seemed 
A warrior in an angel form. . . . 



II 

Now dark D'Aulnay a parley seeks ; 

Demands surrender of the fort ! 
But, ha ! soon back his herald takes 

An answer fearless, prompt, and short :- 

" Madame will hold this fort St John, 
As she has held it once before, 

Despite of every robber loon, 

For France and for her lord. La Tour." 



Canadian Verse 125 

Three days D'Aulnay's beleaguering force 
Assailed our fort with might and main ; 

To every wile he had recourse, — 
To fail again and yet again. . . . 



No craven cry our lady heard, 

Though small our band and sorely pressed; 
One soul our every action spurred, — 

Her lion's heart in woman's breast ! . . . 



Ill 

'Twas Easter morn. — A sudden cry ! — 
Our every heart a moment quailed : — 

" The guard ! — quick — ho ! — the enemy 
Our ditch and parapet have scaled ! " . . . 

Too true : a rampart's coin they'd won, 
With skulking treachery for their guide ; 

De Charnise himself led on, 

With Ponce — the traitor ! — by his side. 

With one wild shout of " Vive La Tour !" 

We dash upon their bristling van ; 
Where waves our lady's sword before. 

Herself unscathed by fiend or man. 

Our headlong charge the foe appalled ; 

They shrank ; they staggered — turned for flight ; 
D'Aulnay a parley loudly called 

And waved the craven signal white. 

He vaunted his o'erwhelming force ; 

Our stout defence, he said, was well ; — 
Our longer strife would end in worse ; 

He offered terms most honorable. 



126 A Treasury of 

Our lady viewed, with pitying eye, 
Her band toil-worn, diminished ; 

With heaving breast and deep-drawn sigh, 
She slowly, sadly bowed her head. 



IV 

Our keys surrendered, arms laid down, 
We — penned and prisoned helplessly ; — 

Then dark and vengeful was the frown 
Of stern D'Aulnay de Charnise. 

That demon in a human form, 

Dark-souled, incarnate treachery, — 

Now swore, with loud upbraiding storm, 
The prisoned garrison should die. . . . 

No sound, no utterance, passed her lips, 
The while that awful deed was done ; 

As if her soul were 'neath eclipse — 

Her beauteous form transformed to stone. 

Then, with one long, loud piercing shriek. 
That form upon the earth she cast. 

No more can D'Aulnay vengeance wreak : 
The heroine's heart has burst at last ! . . 



S. FRANCES HARRISON 
VILLANELLE 

SPRUNG from a sword-sheath fit for Mars, 
Straight and sharp, of a gay glad green, 
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars. 

Barter, would I, for the dross of the Czars, 

These golden flowers and buds fifteen, 
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars ? 



Canadian Verse 127 

Barter, would you, these scimitars, 

Among which ht by their Hght so keen 
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars? 

No, for the breast may burst its bars, 

The heart its shell, at sight of sheen 
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars : 

Miles away from the mad earth's jars, 
Beneath a leafy and shining screen, 
My jonquil lifts its yellow stars. 

And I — self-scathed with mortal scars, 

I weep, when I see, in its radiant mien, 
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars 
My jonquil lift its yellow stars. 



CHATEAU PAPINEAU 

THE red-til'd towers of the old Chateau, 
Perched on the cliff above our bark, 
Burn in the western evening glow. 

The fiery spirit of Papineau 

Consumes them still with its fever spark, 
The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau ! 

Drift by and mark how bright they show, 

And how the muUion'd windows — mark ! 
Burn in the western evening glow ! 

Drift down, or up, where'er you go. 

They flame from out the distant park, 
The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau. 

So was it once with friend, with foe ; 

Far off they saw the patriot's ark 
Burn in the western evening glow. 



128 A Treasury of 

Think of him now ! One thought bestow, 

As, blazing against the pine trees dark, 
The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau 
Burn in the western evening glow ! 



SEPTEMBER 

I 

BIRDS that were gray in the green are black in 
the yellow. 
Here where the green remains rocks one little fellow. 

Quaker in gray, do you know that the green is going ? 
More than that — do you know that the yellow is 
showing ? 

II 

Singer of songs, do you know that your Youth is 

flying ? 
That Age will soon at the lock of your life be prying ? 

Lover of life, do you know that the brown is going ? 
More than that — do you know that the gray is 



showing ? 



NOVEMBER 



THESE are the days that try us ; these the hours 
That find, or leave us, cowards — doubters of 
Heaven, 
Sceptics of self, and riddled through with vain 
Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan 
The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky. 
And mark it utterly blank. Whereas, a fool, 
The flippant fungoid growth of modern mode, 
Uncapped, unbelled, unshorn, but still a fool. 
Fate at his fingers' ends, and Cause in tow, 
Or, wiser, say, the Yorick of his age. 
The Touchstone of his period, would forecast 



Canadian Verse 129 

Better than us, the film and foam of rose 
That yet may float upon the eastern grays 
At dawn to-morrow. 

Still, and if we could. 
We would not change our gloom for glibness, lose 
Our wonder in our faith. We are not worse 
Than those in whom the myth was strongest, those 
In whom first awe lived longest, those who found 
— Dear Pagans — gods in fountain, flood and flower. 
Sometimes the old Hellenic base stirs, lives 
Within us, and we thrill to branch and beam 
When walking where the aureoled autumn sun 
Looms golden through the chestnuts. But to-day — 
When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire, 
And garden-plots lie pilfered, and the vines 
Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green. 
Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play 
His bitter music — on a day like this. 
We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand 
In apathy mute before our window pane, 
And muse upon the blankness. Then, O, then, 
If ever, should we thank our God for those 
Rare spirits who have testified in faith 
Of such a world as this, and straight we pray 
For such an eye as Wordsworth's, he who saw 
System in anarchy, progress in ruin, peace 
In devastation. Duty was his star — 
May it be ours — this Star the Preacher missed. 



THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN 

BEAUTY 

ONLY in dreams she appears to me. 
In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea; 
In the scent of the rose, the breath of the spring, 
The cloud of the summer, glistening ; 

I 



I30 A Treasury of 

In the sound of an orient forest dim, 

Scarce heard far off on ocean's rim 

By wondering traveller who descries 

Naught of all its mysteries ; 

In the wash of the wave, the sigh of the sea, 

The laughter of leaves on the wind-tossed tree. 

Her hair is the dusk of an autumn night. 

Her brow the moonbeam's pallid light. 

Her voice is the voice of the wind and the wave, 

When the breeze blows low and the ripples lave 

The feet of a wooded mountain hoar 

Rising on southern storied shore. 

The breath from between her hallowed lips 

Is the breath exhaled from a rose that sips 

The dew on a lucid April day. 

Soft as the spring, as summer gay. 

In the flush of the early morning mist. 

Which the fervid sun has barely kissed, 

Far down in the balmy-breathing dale, 

I get a glimpse of her flimsy veil. 

In the glow of the lurid sunset hue 

I see the robe which her limbs shine through. 

On the grass-blade wet I see the tears 

Her eyes have shed for our hopes and fears. 

Her eyes . . . her eyes . . . the infinite deeps 

Of the holiest heavens where God He keeps 

All that is beautiful, good, and true — 

Her eyes are the infinite heaven's blue. 

Gazing in sad serenity 

On restless, frail humanity. 

On softly-breathing evening still. 

Alone, where the whispering wayward rill 

To the love-sick leaves, which gently dip 

Low down to kiss it, lip to lip. 

Tells secrets strange of love and pain, 

Which the leaves lisp back to it again, — 

Ah ! then I dream that my love comes nigh, 

And think that I hear her softly sigh. 



Canadian Verse 13 

Or when, on a windy summer day, 
(The golden sunshine-gleam on the bay) 
To me, ensconced far out on the high 
And rocky weed-strewn promontory, 
Come multitudinous sights and sounds — 
The rush of the boisterous wave which bounds 
Far up the chff, the sea-bird's call. 
The flying spume, the cloudlets small 
That dance through the ether hand in hand — 
The joy suffused o'er the sea and the land, — 
Then, too, I dream that my love is near. 
And think that I catch her laughter clear. 

Only in dreams she appears to me. 

In dreams of the earth, and the sk}^, and the sea. 



CHARLES HEAVYSEGE 

MAGNANIMOUS AND MEAN 

OPEN, my heart, thy ruddy valves ; 
It is thy master calls ; 
Let me go down, and curious trace 
Thy labyrinthine halls. 

Open, O heart, and let me view 

The secrets of thy den ; 
Myself unto myself now show 

With introspective ken. 

Expose thyself, thou covered nest 

Of passions, and be seen ; 
Stir up thy brood, that in unrest 

Are ever piping keen. 
Ah ! what a motley multitude — 

Magnanimous and mean ! 



132 A Treasury of 



NIGHT 

"T^IS solemn darkness ; the sublime of shade ; 
i- Night, by no stars nor rising moon reheved ; 
The awful blank of nothingness arrayed, 
O'er which my eyeballs roll in vain, deceived. 

Upward, around, and downward I explore, 
E'en to the frontiers of the ebon air. 
But cannot, though I strive, discover more 
Than what seems one huge cavern of despair. 

Oh, Night, art thou so grim, when, black and bare 
Of moonbeams, and no cloudlets to adorn. 
Like a nude Ethiop 'twixt two houris fair. 

Thou stand'st between the evening and the morn ? 
I took thee for an angel, but have wooed 
A cacodasmon in mine ignorant mood. 



THE COMING OF THE MORN 

SEE how the Morn awakes. Along the sky 
Proceeds she with her pale, increasing light, 
And, from the depths of the dim canopy. 
Drives out the shadows of departing night. 
Lo, the clouds break, and gradually more wide 
Morn openeth her bright, rejoicing gates ; 
And ever, as the orient valves divide, 
A costlier aspect on their breadth awaits. 

Lo, the clouds break, and in each opened schism 
The coming Phoebus lays huge beams of gold. 
And roseate fire and glories that the prism 

Would vainly strive before us to unfold ; 

And, while I gaze, from out the bright abysm 
A flaming disc is to the horizon rolled. 



Canadian Verse 133 

THE MYSTERY OF DOOM 

"HP WAS on a day, and in high, radiant heaven, 
-*- An angel lay beside a lake reclined, 
Against whose shores the rolling waves were driven, 
And beat the measure to the dancing wind. 

There, rapt, he meditated on that story 
Of how Jehovah did of yore expel 
Heaven's aborigines from grace and glory, — 
Those mighty angels that did dare rebel. 

And as he mused upon their dread abode 

And endless penance, from his drooping hands 
His harp sank down, and scattered all abroad 

Its rosy garland on the golden sands ; 

His soul mute wondering that the All-wise Spirit 
Should have allowed the doom of such demerit. 



JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN 
SIMON 



SIMON bent to his hissing saw, 
Simon the chopper gnarled and tough, 
All the years, till his hands were rough 
As the clumsy shape of a bruin's paw. 
Knotted and big with his labor long, 
Yet sure in the work that made them strong. 

Snarling with curse for his hairy throat, 
Poverty feared his strong, rough grasp. 
Sick with rage at the saw's bright hasp 

That flashed with howl and cut with gloat. 

The mother of death and a merciless fate. 

She filled his hfe with the gloom of hate. 



134 A Treasury of 

Yet his heart strives upward to his tongue 

Incomplete in shreds of song 

To help his heavy days along 
Through life with mental clouds o'erhung. 
Harsh as the saw the tunes depart, 
Half-made and dull from the singer's heart. 



Simon the sage worked night and day, 
Simon the chopper wise and true ; 
Only his song to help him through, 
And only his whistle to turn away 
The endless gloom of a lowly place, 
And the dreary tedium from his face. 

His gleaming axe gives up to the light 
Hearts of stubborn sticks and blocks — 
A century maple or birch unlocks 

Its fibres gathered through day and night ; 

And he marks it all with his ancient lore 

As he reads the secret of bark and core. 



In forest lore is Simon wise : 

The beech that ripens on the hill. 
The oak a century cannot kill. 

Are well-read books before his eyes ; 

A forest beneath his axe has turned 

In the fifty years his blade has burned. 

He speaks and knows as a wise man knows. 
Gathering together with dulling sense 
The labor's grudging recompense. 

Thoughtful and patient as wisdom grows. 

He drifts away from the walks of men, 

In a field where he alone has ken. 



Canadian Verse 135 

Simon is wise in days without tears, 

Though arms never rest and work cannot sleep, — 
Wise in the patience that never shall weep ; 
And toil looms yet in the coming years : 
Ceaseless and hungry is human desire, 
And Simon must feed the quenchless fire. 



Ill 

Simon the digger delves in the earth, 
Preparing a pillow for weary head. 
For tired limbs and heart a bed,— 
Young, or gray, or dumb at birth. 
He makes all ready with prelude dirge. 
With careless foot on his own dark verge. 

Like the book recording the village birth, 
Fifty years he has kept the file 
Of all defunct,— and who meanwhile 
May soon desire a strip of earth 
Are clearly writ — and the ancient book 
Has stamped a gloom upon his look. 

And he often grappled with death in the grave. 
While Time stood by whetting his scythe. 
Water may drip, and worms may writhe, 

And the coffin will soon leave the chapel-nave : 

Who mourn the dead, as who soon forget. 

Look into the grave, unburied yet. 

First to come and last to go, 

Simon waits on a fallen stone ; 

No tear, no fear, though he work alone 
To make a grave where weeds may grow. 
He fingers the sod with a tender care 
As if part of the body resting there. 



136 A Treasury of 



IV 

Seasons have furrowed his features deep, 
Bark-Hke and grim as the axe's food — 
His days have grown slow with the growing 
wood — 

Furrows that never smile or weep. 

Axe and spade turn light away, 

He labors in gloom at bright midday. 

Seventy years of months and days 

Weigh on his head and bend him down ; 
His brow with thought has become a frown. 

Seldom a smile o'er his wrinkles plays. 

For his labor makes him a gloomy lore ; 

Forgetting no face he has covered o'er. 



Problems of living are hard to learn ; 

The duty is clear, reward but a hope ; 

Philosophy fails beyond life's dark scope. 
The sage is the digger whose dawns return 
That he drag the lingering minutes away — 
There is no day but the present day. 

What work is well when thrust to a close ? 

Wisdom foretells no hidden good ; 

Suffering follows the hardihood 
Of plunging thus into future woes. 
Living, alone, can quench distress ; 
The moment seized is the one to bless. 

Poverty near, and death at his heels, 
Simon is rich in the wealth of years ; 
Working for bread, without joy, without tears, 

Till the changeless calm will gently steal 

Across his face and will silence his song. 

Where riches are equal his rest will be long. 



Canadian Verse i37 



THE DIVER 



LIKE marble, nude, against the purple sky, 
In ready poise, the diver scans the sea 
Gemming the marsh's green placidity, 
And mirroring the fearless form on high. 

Behold the outward leap— he seems to fly ! 
His arms like arrow-blade just speeded free ; 
His body like the curving bolt, to be 
Deep-driven till the piercing flight shall die. 

Sharply the human arrow cleaves the tide, 
Only a foaming swell to mark his flight ; 
While shoreward moves the silent ring on rin^ 

And now the sea is stirred and broken wide 
Before the swimmer's passage swift and light, 
And bears him as a courser bears a king. 



ACROSS THE DYKES 

THE dykes half bare are lying in the bath 
Of quivering sunlight on this Sunday morn, 
And bobolinks aflock make sweet the worn 
Old places, where two centuries of swath 

Have fallen to earth before the mower's path. 
Across the dykes the bell's low sound is borne 
From green Grand Pre, abundant with the corn, 
With milk and honey which it always hath.— 

And now I hear the Angelus ring far ; 

See faith bow many a head that suff"ered wrong. 
Near all these plains they wrested from the tide ! 

I see the vision of their final griefs that mar 
The greenness of these meadows ; in the song 
Of birds I feel a tear that has not dried. 



138 A Treasury of 

THE SONNET 

HOW fair thou art the poets long have known ; 
And I have sought the beauty which is thine 

Through many days and nights of cloud and shine, 

Until one note of all sweet notes outblown 
Has spelled my ear ; for dearest things alone 

Are found companionless ; and the divine 

And single inspiration shall entwine 

The laurel till it fit the brow of one. 
And thou art rare among the things most rare ; 

The beam consummate of the lights of day ; 

The fullest note struck from the living flood 
Of melody ; the gem that has most care 

In the kind workman's hand, till he shall say, 

"Thy beauty is the acme of all good." 



ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS 

GENTLE-BREATH 

OH, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through 
the grass, 
And all the flowers know her and love to see her pass. 
Oh, all the flowers know her, and well they know the 

song 
That Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing all day 
long. 

O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! 
They do not know you sing of death. 

Oh, Gentle-breath comes crooning a tender lullaby. 

The merry day is over, the stars are in the sky — 

The stars are in the sky, and the flowers droop their 
heads. 

They cannot hear her passing, so airily she treads. 
O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! — 
How mournfully she murmureth ! 



Canadian Verse 139 

Oh, Gentle-breath comes crying — comes crying in the 

night 
Among the sleeping flowers, with footsteps swift and 

light. 
Her tears are on their faces — she sheds them for their 

sakes. 
And there is in her singing a tender heart that breaks. 
O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! — 
How tunefully she sings of death ! 

Oh, Gentle-breath goes wailing — goes shivering away, 
And Icy-breath comes howling, and clouds are dull 

and gray. 
Oh, Icy-breath comes howling — the pine trees sob 

o'erhead 
For the leaves that all have fallen, the flowers that 
are dead. 

O Gentle-breath ! O Gentle-breath ! 
They did not know you sang of death. 

O promise sweet ! — I hear it ! — the falling of the rain ! 
The leaves once more shall rustle, the flowers come 

again ! 
The flowers come again, with their faces fresh and 

sweet, 
And all the grass shall tremble 'neath the touches of 
your feet. 

For you will come, O Gentle-breath ! 
And sing again your song of death ! 



THE LITTLE WHITE SUN 

THE sky had a gray, gray face. 
The touch of the mist was chill, 
The earth was an eerie place, 
For the wind moaned over the hill ; 
But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue. 
When the little white sun came peeping through. 



I40 A Treasury of 

The wet leaves saw it and smiled, 

The glad birds gave it a song — 

A cry from a heart, glee-wild, 

And the echoes laugh it along : 
And the wind and I went whistling, too, 
When the little white sun came peeping through. 

So welcome the chill of rain 

And the world in its dreary guise — 

To have it over again, 

That moment of sweet surprise, 
When the brown earth laughs, and the sky turns blue, 
As the little white sun comes peeping through ! 



TWENTY-OLD AND SEVEN-WILD 

O TWENTY, running through the wood ! 
Where friendly leaves and grasses stir, 
Where airs are sweet and trees are strong, 

And hiding birds call out to her, 
And every little timid thing 
That creeps within the woods to sing 
Seems just to have a voice for her. 

O Twenty, running through the wood ! 

A woman grown, and yet a child ! 
Now in the sun, now in the shade — 

The wild gone out to meet the wild. 
And who can say life is not sweet 
To eager eyes and fearless feet 

To Twenty-old and Seven-wild. 

She leaves the quiet road that winds 
Its pretty way the whole wood through 

And makes a pathway for herself, 
As who at Twenty would not do ? 

Unseen and seen, the wind and she 

Go through the bush and round the tree — 
Go roving 'round and singing through. 



Canadian Verse 141 



Such pleasure just to lose herself ! 

O Seven-wild ! O Twenty-old ! 
The shadows stealing from the night 

Tread measures strange with gleams of gold. 
And Mayflowers lift their faces pink :— 
Now who could look at them and think 

Of being young or being old? 

O Twenty, running through the wood ! 

Its wildness has a power to still ; 
The voices low from rock and twig 

The silences with music thrill, — 
And suddenly she silent grows, 
And, searching out the path she knows, _ 

Turns back— but carries home the thrill. 



WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT 

GOLDEN-ROD 

BESHREW the coined gold !— and so take heed, 
Nor palter with the dross to form a god- 
Behold, the dandelion gilds the clod. 
The buttercup adorns the dewy mead ! 
Doth it not bring contentment to thy greed ?— 
Then satiate thine avarice : the sod 
Gleams with illimitable golden-rod,— 
And of a surety thou art rich indeed ! 



The burnished banner of the summer's prime 
Waves happy mortals to a golden feast 
(The largess rare of yon high Eastern priest !) 

Unstained by goaded greed, or shame, or crime. 
Oh, glorious yellow golden-rod !— sublime 
Free-offering to the greatest and the least. 



142 A Treasury of 

THE SEA'S INFLUENCE 

THE brine is in our blood from days of yore, 
And ever in our ears the tide's tune rings ; 
The wave runs through our legends and our lore, 
And permeates a thousand diverse things ; 
The memory of our race's Island home 
Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam. 



THE PASSING OF SUMMER 

" QUMMER is dead !" — it was the wind that spake 

In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine — 
" The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign ; 

The sere rush signals it in stream and lake ; 
Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake, 

Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine ; 
The sky is veiled in tears ; each gray confine 
Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake. 

" I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn ; 

1 sound his praises in the golden light ; 

But when high noon has passed and raven night 
Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn : 
The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn. 
The multitudes confronting death or flight." 



RICHARD HUNTINGTON 

SUNRISE ON THE TUSKET 



STILL, in the light of morning gray. 
That ushered in the summer day. 
The fair Acadien hamlet lay 



Canadian Verse 143 

Its fringing hem of forest round, 

Its verdured slopes with orchards crowned, 

Lie steeped in silence most profound. 

No zephyr's wing the leaf hath stirred, 
No sound to break the calm is heard, 
Save crickets' chirp or trill of bird. 

The frequent fireflies' fitful gleam, 
The star of morning's lucent beam. 
Shine mirrored in the glassy stream, 

In whose clear depths are pictured seen 
The drooping boughs and foliage green 
Of graceful trees that o'er it lean. 



Glows in the kindling East a blush, 
Morn's old and immemorial flush ! 
Afar, the distant Tusket's rush 

Is heard, in muffled murmur deep. 
As, past green isle and headland steep, 
Its eddying waters seaward sweep. 

Morn's steps advance, and lo, the West 
Hath donned a new and gorgeous vest 
Of purple and of amethyst. 

Look East once more ! — a sea of gold 
Along the far horizon rolled — 
The rising orb of day behold ! 

It gilds with flame St Michael's spire, 
Whose panes, agleam with living fire. 
Blaze like some sacrificial pyre. 



144 A Treasury of 

It lights, as with celestial glow, 
The slender crosslets ranged below, 
Man's last, sad resting-place to show. 



Ill 

In yonder modest glebe-house near, 
Unconscious of my presence here. 
Sleeps one to friendship's heart most dear. 

Unwakened by the orient beam, 
Perchance in some ecstatic dream 
He roams by Tiber's classic stream. 

Or sees St Peter's mighty dome 

Soar grandly o'er the pomp of Rome — 

His own loved Church's pride and home. 

Blest be his visions, wheresoe'er 
His dream-enfranchised fancy veer — 
The faithful priest, the friend sincere ! 



LOUISBURG 

AND this is Louisburg ! whose moss-grown ruin 
Stretches before me — one deserted waste ! 
Scarce can the eye, its eager search pursuing. 
The outlines of her strong defences trace — 
Relentless by the miner's blast effaced. 
Yet was she once the brightest gem of all 
The gorgeous brilliants that with splendor graced 
The diadem of old monarchial Gaul, — 
She who defiance frowned, and Britain foe did call. 

The Dunkirk of this land ! — how fallen since then ! 
The eye but wanders o'er a waste of stone. 
Remains of dwellings once the abodes of men, 
But now forlorn, deserted, silent, lone ; 



Canadian Verse 145 

And rank and mantling grass hath overgrown 
Her streets, her sepulchres, her ruined walls. 
The voice of bygone ages hath a tone 
Which lingers yet amid these prostrate halls. 
As reverent 'mid their maze my pensive footstep falls. 



Lo, yon green rampart ! towering once in pride, 
And bristling, too, with bayonets, that long 
The prowess of the immortal Wolfe defied. — 
Not to the peaceful Muse doth it belong 
To weave with sturdy martial words her song. 
Else might I speak of glacis and of fosse, 
Of massy culvert, and of battery strong, 
And blasted battlements o'ergrown with moss. 
Around whose ruined base the angry billows toss.- 

Eastward there stood upon the frowning steep — 
And of its wreck some fragments still remain — 
Their beacon light, the Pharos of the deep ! . . . 



JAMES COBOURG HODGINS 

ONCE MORE 

ONCE more the robin flutes in glee, 
On heat returning. 
The living juices in the trees 
Are shooting in the early leaves, — 
The blossoms break, 
And lusty nature wide awake 
Her pleasant task sits learning. 

The fleecy clouds scud o'er the blue, 

In sudden glory. 
The woods are full of whistling birds, 
And nature, in strange mystic words, 

K 



146 A Treasury of 

Relates once more, 
In the same strains as oft before, 
The one old golden story : 

That he who lives close to her heart, 
Nor spurns her warning. 

Shall all life's cunning secrets learn : 

The trill of birds, the tress of fern, 

The roar of seas. 

The music of the wind-swept trees, 
The glory of the morning ; 

Shall learn the noiseless laws of life. 

The truths of beauty. 
And find that Nature's meanest guise 
Is full of wonder and surprise ; 
That everything 
Doth to the surface ever bring 

The blessedness of duty. 



A GREEK REVERIE 

THIS is the purple sea of ancient song. 
These are the groves to which bacchantes lured. 
In these grim rocks bad spirits are immured. 
Pent in by Heaven in token of some wrong. 
Sure that was Pan who flashed by through the pine, 
Followed by boys with passionate eyes, and men 
Bedecked with roses ! Fainter down the glen 
Tramps the mad rabble, caught with song divine. 

Now once again the Lord of life and day 

Smites into splendor all the dull waste waves : 
Straight Ulysses, his face, sleep-swollen, laves. 

Rouses his heroes, and with scant delay 

Prows are turned homeward. Hark the measured 

beat! 
Another weary day and vacant sky and heat ! 



Canadian Verse 147 

JOSEPH HOWE 

THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND 

A CENTENARY SONG OF THE LANDING OF 
CORNWALLIS AT HALIFAX 

ALL hail to the day when the Britons came over, 
And planted their standard, with sea-foam still 
wet ! 
Around and above us their spirits will hover, 

Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. 
Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving, 

The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes ; 
The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving, 
Securely the Mayflower"^ blushes and blooms. 

Hail to the day when the Britons came over. 

And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet. 
Around and above us their spirits zvill hover, 
Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. 
WeHl honor it yet, we^ll honor it yet, 
The flag of Old Englaiid ! weUl honor it yet. 

In the temples they founded, their faith is maintained. 

Every foot of the soil they bequeathed is still ours. 
The graves where they moulder, no foe has profaned, 

But we wreathe them with verdure, and strew them 
with flowers ! 
The blood of no brother, in civil strife poured. 

In this hour of rejoicing encumbers our souls ! 
The frontier's the field for the patriot's sword, 

And cursed be the weapon that faction controls ! 

Then hail to the day ! 'tis with memories crowded. 

Delightful to trace 'midst the mists of the past. 
Like the features of Beauty, bewitchingly shrouded. 
They shine through the shadows Time o'er them 
has cast. 
* The Trailing Arbutus, the emblem of Nova Scotia. 



148 A Treasury of 

As travellers track to its source in the mountains 
The stream which, far swelling, expands o'er the 
plains, 
Our hearts on this day fondly turn to the fountains 
Whence flow the warm currents that bound in our 
veins. 

And proudly we trace them ! No warrior flying 

From city assaulted, and fanes overthrown. 
With the last of his race on the battlements dying, 

And weary with wandering, founded our own. 
From the Queen of the Islands, then famous in story, 

A century since, our brave forefathers came. 
And our kindred yet fill the wide world with her glory, 

Enlarging her empire, and spreading her name. 

Every flash of her genius our pathway enlightens. 

Every field she explores we are beckoned to tread. 
Each laurel she gathers our future day brightens — 

We joy with her living, and mourn for her dead. 
Then hail to the day when the Britons came over, 

And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet ! 
Above and around us their spirits shall hover, 

Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. 



THE DESERTED NEST 

DESERTED nest, that on the leafless tree 
Waves to and fro with every dreary blast, 
With none to shelter, none to care for thee. 
Thy day of pride and cheerfulness is past. 

Thy tiny walls are falling to decay. 

Thy cell is tenantless and tuneless now. 

The winter winds have rent the leaves away. 
And left thee hanging on the naked bough. 



Canadian Verse 149 

But yet, deserted nest, there is a spell, 
E'en in thy loneliness, to touch the heart, 

For holy things within thee once did dwell, 
The type of joys departed now thou art. 

With what assiduous care thy framers wrought. 
With what delight they viewed the structure rise. 

And how, as each some tiny rafter brought, 
Pleasure and hope would sparkle in their eyes. 

Ah ! who shall tell, when all the work was done. 
The rapturous pleasure that their labors crowned, 

The bhssful moments Nature for them won. 
And bade them celebrate with joyous sound. 

A father's pride, a mother's anxious care. 
Her fluttered spirits, and his gentlest tone, 

All, all that wedded hearts so fondly share. 
To thee, deserted nest, were surely known. 

Then though thy walls be rent, and cold thy cell, 
And thoughtless crowds may hourly pass thee by, 

Where love and truth and tenderness did dwell, 
There's still attraction for the poet's eye. 



CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY 

AN UNFINISHED PROPHECY 



THE twilight land toyed with the night 
When from the hills with footsteps light 
An Indian maiden passed adown 
A rugged path o'er boulders brown 
Unto the soft gray river sand. 
The sweet balsamic breezes fanned 
Her bronze-brown cheeks and blue-black hair 
With loving wings, and lilies fair 



50 A Treasury of 

Held up their golden cups to stay 
The progress of her paddle's play, 
As o'er the quivering ripplets she, 
With airy grace and gestures free. 
Pulled from the beach a bark canoe, 
And threaded reedy mazes through 
Toward the river's open breast. 
That reached away into the west 
Till it caressed the after-glow 
Of sunset in the distance low. 



II 

The river's rippling monotone — 

The low-voiced chants of zephyrs lone. 

That swung like censers through the halls 

By leafage arched, with leafage walls — 

The lazy hum of insect song — 

All seemed to woo the shades along 

The golden rim of eventide, 

As back and forth her paddle plied 

Through solemn symphonies of gloom 

Into the night-enshrouded tomb 

Of recent day. The throbbing stars 

Rose one by one above the bars 

Of dark abysmal to the sea 

Of heaven, and the mystery 

Of Nature's silence robed her round 

With garments threaded by the sound 

Of marsh-bird's wail, or pine-wood's moan. 

At length she turned, and towards the zone 

Of blackness, girding round the stream 

As Lethe coils around a dream. 

She swerved the course of the canoe. 

And through the grasses, damp with dew. 

That held their arms down from the bank 

To fondle with the rushes rank. 

Propelled its prow against the sand. 

And silently sprang to the land. 



Canadian Verse 151 

III 

She pulled aside a maple screen 
That curtained off a weird ravine, 
And stepped toward a smouldering flame, 
O'er which crouched low an ancient dame 
Whose wrinkled face, as leather dry. 
Seemed dead, except that either eye 
Shone with a fierce, malignant glare. 
Like that which lights the wild-cat's lair 
When danger pries into its keep. 
" Mother, I'm glad you're not asleep," 
The maiden said in awesome way. 
" I've dared the dark which follows day, 
And paddled up through shade and gloom. 
And grim, fantastic shapes that loom 
Like giant goblins round the road 
That leads to your retired abode." 
" You're welcome, child, but never dread 
That you'll disturb my sleeping bed," 
The dame's harsh voice made answer soon, 
" I do not sleep till night-tide's noon 
Has gone to meet the dawning day. 
All night my tireless fancies play 
Unceasing gambols with the gnomes 
That chase each other 'neath the domes 
That roof the wild deer's headlong path 
When flying from the hunter's wrath. 
Why came you here ? Do troubles chase 
You from your pillowed resting-place ? 
Has love bestowed a heart on you. 
And come you here to prove it true ? " 
" No heart has love bestowed on me. 
But mine has gone, and I to thee 
Come in the anguish of my grief 
To seek for solace or relief. 
'Tis said that you can lift the screen 
That veils the destinies unseen. . . . 
Until this summer I was free 



152 -A Treasury of 

And happy as the warbUng birds ; 

My thoughts ran on in merry words, 

As runnels ripple o'er the rocks, 

Or careless as my own dark locks, 

Which flung their mane to capture gleams 

That glanced from sun-bedizened streams. 

I watched the braves return one day 

From a victorious foray, 

And noted, towering o'er the rest, 

A chieftain from the outbound west 

With eyes of fire and haughty frown. 

I met him ere the sun went down 

And saw his frown turn to a smile. 

And in his eyes the fire the while 

Was fanned to fascination sweet. 

The Eagle Eye a lover meet 

Would be — " " Hist, child, footsteps approach ! 

Hide till we see who doth encroach 

Within the bounds of my domain. 

To yonder bush, and there remain 

Until I call you forth again." 



IV 

The ancient crone revived the blaze 

Until its red, uncertain rays 

Crept down the hillside dun, and died 

Upon the river's misty tide. 

Then by the lurid flickering gleams, 

That seemed dissolving out of dreams 

Among the leafy arcades far, 

She caught the glitter of a star 

That silver-like shot from its nest 

Upon a young brave's stalwart breast, 

As up the forest path he came. 

Attracted by the pinewood flame. 

" Why comest thou ? " her voice rang keen 

Through shrouded glade and dim ravine. 



Canadian Verse 153 

" I come to pray you'll weave a spell 

Whereby the future to foretell. 

A chieftain I, in battle skilled, 

Full many a foeman I have killed ; 

I've scalped the locks from many a brow, 

And never shirked a task till now. 

Through ghostly fogs, o'er leaping brooks, 

'Mid slumbering snakes in dusky nooks, 

O'er sullen lairs and reedy shades, 

O'er quivering brakes and venomed glades, 

O'er gusty hills, sun-flushed and high, 

That shook their locks against the sky. 

O'er shady stretches long and lone, 

O'er rocky ledge, through caverned stone. 

Past morning's prime, past twilight gray, 

I've tracked my foemen on their way 

With heart relentless, and with hand 

Ready to hurl the deadly brand 

With naught of mercy nor of fear. 

And yet to-night I'm standing here. 

Afraid to face a maiden's eyes. 

Afraid to reach to grasp the prize 

My heart desires all else above, 

Her precious treasury of love. 

I've tried to break the bonds that roll 

Their magic coils around my soul, 

By daring danger on the lake 

When storm-clouds o'er its bosom break — 

By roaming over flood and fell — 

By trying every potent spell 

The old magician 'neath the hill 

Could summon to assist my will — 

By chasing gravelights over graves. 

And rambling where the were-wolf raves 

Out threats of torture and of rack 

To hapless ones that cross its track. 

I've run death's gauntlet, day by day. 

Where hungry wild-cats screech for prey, 

But everywhere the haunting face 



154 A Treasury of 

Of Budding Rose in matchless grace 
Swims 'fore my eyes. Pray, mother, tell, 
Will she return my love ? Dispel 
My doubts at once and seal my fate ! " 
"Sit down behind that bush and wait," 
The dame replied, " until I call 
The wood-sprites up within my thrall." 



She lit a smoking pine-knot red, 

And swayed it thrice around her head, 

Then hurled it hissing in the marsh, 

The while her voice on air-wings harsh 

Passed through the thronging shadows dense, 

Unto love's hearing strained and tense. 

" I hear the voices of the trees 

In answer to the asking breeze. 

And this is what the voices say : 

' True love will always have its way ! ' 

Come forth, my children, to the light ; 

The answer to the breeze is right." 

The maiden came with drooping head, 

The brave with grave and measured tread, 

And joined their hands above the blaze. 

" For you, fond lovers, length of days 

I prophesy, and happy times. 

Your lives shall run like merry rhymes 

Through many years of full content. 

And when at last your course is spent, 

Your children shall revere your name, 

Your children's children — " Flashed a flame, 

A lightning blast, athwart their eyes. 

And death assailed them in the guise 

Of Iroquois, the Hurons' dread — 

And seeress, lovers, all were dead ! 



Canadian Verse 155 

E. PAULINE JOHNSON 

(tekahionwake) 
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS 

WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest ! 
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. 
The sail is idle, the sailor too ; 

! wind of the west, we wait for you. 
Blow, blow ! 

1 have wooed you so. 

But never a favor you bestow. 

You rock your cradle the hills between, 

But scorn to notice my white lateen. 

I stow the sail, unship the mast : 

I wooed you long, but my wooing's past ; 

My paddle will lull you into rest. 

O ! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, 

Sleep, sleep, 

By your mountain steep, 

Or down where the prairie grasses sweep ! 

Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, 

For soft is the song my paddle sings. 

August is laughing across the sky. 

Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, 

Drift, drift, 

Where the hills uplift 

On either side of the current swift. 

The river rolls in its rocky bed ; 

My paddle is plying its way ahead ; 

Dip, dip. 

While the waters flip 

In foam as over their breast we slip. 



156 A Treasury of 

And oh, the river runs swifter now ; 

The eddies circle about my bow. 

Swirl, swirl ! 

How the ripples curl 

In many a dangerous pool awhirl ! 

And forward far the rapids roar, 

Fretting their margin for evermore. 

Dash, dash. 

With a mighty crash, 

They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash. 

Be strong, O paddle ! be brave, canoe ! 

The reckless waves you must plunge into. 

Reel, reel, 

On your trembling keel, 

But never a fear my craft will feel. 

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead ! 

The river slips through its silent bed. 

Sway, sway. 

As the bubbles spray 

And fall in tinkling tunes away. 

And up on the hills against the sky, 

A fir tree rocking its lullaby. 

Swings, swings. 

Its emerald wings, 

Swelling the song that my paddle sings. 



AT HUSKING TIME 

A T husking time the tassel fades 
-^~^ To brown above the yellow blades, 
Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn 
That bursts its chrysalis in scorn 
Longer to lie in prison shades. 



Canadian Verse i57 

Among the merry lads and maids 
The creaking ox-cart slowly wades 
'Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn 
At husking time. 

The prying pilot crow persuades 
The flock to join in thieving raids 3 
The sly raccoon with craft inborn 
His portion steals ; from plenty's horn 
His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades 
At husking time. 



A 



SHADOW RIVER 

STREAM of tender gladness, 
Of filmy sun, and opal-tinted skies ; 
Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies 
In mystic rings, 
Where softly swings 
The music of a thousand wings 
That almost tone to sadness. 

Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, 

A bubble in the pearly air, I seem 

To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream 

Of clouds of snow, 

Above, below. 

Drift with my drifting, dim and slow. 

As twilight drifts to even. 

The little fern-leaf, bending 

Upon the brink, its green reflection greets. 

And kisses soft the shadow that it meets 

With touch so fine. 

The border line 

The keenest vision can't define ; 

So perfect is the blending. 



15S A Treasury of 

The far fir trees that cover 

The brownish hihs with needles green and gold, 

The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, 

Repictured are 

Beneath me far, 

Where not a ripple moves to mar 

Shades underneath, or over. 



Mine is the undertone ; 

The beauty, strength, and power of the land 

Will never stir or bend at my command ; 

But all the shade 

Is marred or made. 

If I but dip my paddle blade ; 

And it is mine alone. 



O ! pathless w^orld of seeming ! 

O ! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal 

Is more my own than ever was the real. 

For others Fame 

And Love's red flame, 

And yellow gold : I only claim 

The shadows and the dreaming. 



BRIER 

BECAUSE, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm 
Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, 
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, 
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day. 

Because I never knew your care to tire. 
Your hand to weary guiding me aright. 

Because you walk before and crush the brier, 
It does not pierce my feet so much to-night. 



Canadian Verse 159 

Because so often you have hearkened to 

My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, 

That these harsh hands of mine add not unto 
The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow. 



PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS 

C. P. R. Westbound — No. i 

I SWING to the sunset land, 
The world of prairie, the world of plain, 
The world of promise, and hope, and gain, 
The world of gold, and the world of grain. 
And the world of the willing hand. 

I carry the brave and bold. 
The one who works for the nation's bread, 
The one whose past is a thing that's dead, 
The one who battles and beats ahead. 
And the one who goes for gold. 

I swing to the land to be : 
I am the power that laid its floors, 
I am the guide to its western stores, 
I am the key to its golden doors, 
That open alone to me. 

C. P. R. Eastbound — No. 2 

I swing to the land of morn. 
The grey old East, with its grey old seas, 
The land of leisure, the land of ease. 
The land of flowers and fruits and trees, 
And the place where we were born. 

Freighted with wealth I come : 
Food, and fortune, and fellow that went 
Far out west on adventure bent. 
With well-worn pick and a folded tent, 
Is bringing his bullion home. 



i6o A Treasury of 

I never will be renowned 

As my twin that swings to the western marts, 

For I am she of the humbler parts ; 

But I am the joy of the waiting hearts, 

For I am the homeward bound ! 



ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN 

THE SONG OF THE THAW 

MY sandalled feet are firm and fleet. 
My chariot wheels are splendid ; 
I rush and run before the sun 

With balmy breezes blended ; 
O'er forest dry, past mountains high. 

O'er snowy valleys hollow, 
I sweep along with muffled song 
And robin red-breasts follow. 

Before my blade the snow wreaths fade. 

The frosty blast I cripple ; 
The frozen stream wakes from its dream, 

And straight begins to ripple ; 
I hush the wail along my trail 

Past hamlet, home and hollow. 
While on I go with noiseless flow 

And robin red-breasts follow. 

And like a psalm, benign and calm, 

I blight the brow of winter ; 
I snap the chains that hold the reins — ■ 

The fields of ice I splinter ; 
And like the tide I run and ride, 

The bated winds I swallow ; 
Triumphant still past rock and rill, 

And robin red-breasts follow. 



Canadian Verse i6i 

A wing of light from night to night 

My perfumed chariot passes, 
And I can hear in meadows clear 

The whispering of the grasses ; 
With joyous face I onward race 

Past hopeless height and hollow, 
While swift and strong with simple song 

My robin red-breasts follow. 

The north wind bleeds — the rustling reeds 

The happy news is telling. 
And I can hear in forests near 

The juicy leaf-buds swelling ; 
I onward rush without the thrush. 

The red bird or the swallow. 
You needn't mind, for close behind 

My robin red-breasts follow. 



PEEPY IS NOT DEAD 

IF Peepy had lived," the mother sighed, 
" He'd be of age to-day." 
She bowed her head as she softly cried — 

The head that was turning gray. 
Now, one would think that Peepy was dead, 

Underneath the snow : 
One would think that Peepy was dead 
Since seventeen years ago. 

'Tis true they hid poor Peepy away, 

Down in the churchyard green, 
And ever since that pitiful day 

Peepy's never been seen. 
No one has seen his curly head 

Or heard his laughter flow ; 
But it doesn't follow that Peepy's been dead 

Since seventeen years ago ! 

L 



1 62 A Treasury of 

They laid his toddhng feet to rest ; 

They folded his fingers small, 
Around the lily upon his breast ; 

Then laid him away — that's all. 
They curtained his vacant trundle bed 

In his little room of woe ; 
They really thought that Peepy was dead 

Seventeen years ago. 

But it wasn't Peepy they put to stay 

Under the churchyard sod — 
He's young and gay and strong to-day 

Up in the realms of God. 
He walks in the light by the Saviour's side, 

The Saviour that loved him so. 
So it's folly to think that Peepy died 

Seventeen years ago. 

His form returned to its mother mould, 

But his soul began to grow — 
This is the story an angel told, 

And I'm sure these things are so. 
Creeds and churches bother my head, 

But this one thing I know — 
It isn't true that Peepy's been dead 

Since seventeen years ago ! 



WILLIAM KIRBY 

THE MARQUIS OF LORNE'S VISIT TO 
THE NORTH-WEST 

WHAT went ye to the wilderness to see ? 
A shaking reed ? Men in king's houses 
dwelling ? 
A prophet ? Yea, more than a prophet telling 
Of lands new named for Christ — a gift in fee, 
And heritage of millions yet to be. 



Canadian Verse 163 

Green prairies like an ocean swelling 

From rise to set of sun — great rivers spelling 

Their rugged names in Blackfoot and in Cree. 

That went you forth to see, and saw it lie, 
The glorious land reserved by God till now, 
For England's help in need — to drive the plough, 

A thousand miles on end — till in the sky 

The snowy mountains, from the plains upborne, 
Bear on the proudest peak the name of Lome. 



AT SPENCER GRANGE 

UPON the heights of Sillery one day, 
Led by the dryad of the fairy wood, 
A daughter of the land, as bright and good 
As spring's first daffodil, bade me survey 

Wolfe's cove, the gleaming city with array 
Of walls and pinnacles, each in a hood 
Of sunset glory, while the shining flood 
Swept through the mountains far and far away. 

And then the nearer landscape she recalls, 

The grove, the Grange, Belle Borne's romantic rill, 
Which in a chain of silvery waterfalls 

Ran down the cliff and vanished ; but she still 
Stands there to me. A memory will not fade — 
Part of the glorious vision I surveyed. 



From "THE SPARROWS" 

SO sat I yesterday, with weary eyes 
Looking at leafless trees and snow-swept plains, 
And broad Ontario's ice-encumbered sea. 
My thoughts had wandered in a waking dream 
Across the deep abyss of vanished years. 
To that dear land I never saw again — 
When suddenly a fluttering of wings 
Shook the soft snow — a twittering of birds 



1 64 A Treasury of 

Chirping a strange old note, but heard before 
In English hedges and on roofs red-tiled, 
Of cottage homes that looked on village greens ! 
An old familiar note ! Who says the ear 
Forgets a voice once heard ? the eye, a charm ? 
The heart, affection's touch, from man or woman ? 
Not mine at least ! I knew my own birds' language, 
And recognised their little forms with joy. 

A flock of English sparrows at my door, 
With feathers ruffled in the cold north wind, 
Claimed kinship with me — hospitality ! — 
Brown-coated things ! Not for uncounted gold 
Would I have made denial of their claims ! 
Five ! six ! ten ! twenty ! But I lost all count 
In my great joy. Whence come I knew not ; glad 
They came to me, who loved them for the sake 
Of that dear land at once both theirs and mine. 

I ran to get the food I knew they liked, 

Remembering how — a child — in frost and snow — 

I used to scatter crumbs before the door, 

And wheat in harvest gleaned, to feed the birds 

Which left us not in winter, but made gay 

The bleak, inclement season of the year. 

The sparrows chirped and pecked while eyeing me 

With Httle diamond glances, like old friends, 

As round my feet they fluttered, hopped and fed, 

In perfect confidence and void of fear. 

Their forms, their notes, their pretty ways so strange. 

Yet so familiar — like a rustic word 

Learned in my childhood and not spoken since — 

All, all came back to me ! and as I looked 

And listened — a thousand memories rose up, 

Like a vast audience at the nation's song ! 

Old England's hills and dales of matchless charm. 
Sweeping in lines of beauty, stood revealed : 



Canadian Verse 165 

Her fragrant lanes where woodbine trailed the hedge, 
And little feet with mine ran side by side 
As we plucked primroses, or marked the spot 
Where blackbird, thrush or linnet reared its young. 
While sang the cuckoo on the branching tree. 
Those meadows, too ! Who can forget them ever ? 
So green ! with buttercups and daisies set, 
Where skylarks nested and sprang up at dawn 
To heaven's top, singing their rapturous lay I 
Those gentle rivers, not too large to grasp 
By the strong swimmer of his native streams ; 
Those landward homes that breed the nation's strength ; 
Those beaconed cliffs that watch her stormy seas, 
Covered with ships that search all oceans round : 
Those havens, marts, and high-built cities, full 
Of work and wealth and men who rule the world ! 
All rose before me in supernal light, 
As when beheld with childhood's eyes of strength, 
And stirred my soul with impulses divine. 

My heart opened its depths — glad tears and sad 
Mingled upon my cheek, which forty years' 
Strange winds had fanned and heat and cold em- 
browned. 
God's hand is nearer than we think — a touch 
Suffices to restore the dead ; a word 
Becomes a wonder of creative power. 
The little sparrows in their rustic speech 
Talking a tongue I knew — this message brought 
From Christ, who spake it, merciful to man : 
" Are not two sparrows for a farthing sold. 
And not one falls without the Father's leave ? 
Fear not, therefore ! for of more value, ye. 
Than many sparrows, yea, whose very hairs 
Are numbered by the loving care of God." 

I blessed the little messengers who brought 
These words of comfort to my lonely heart, 
To teach me resignation, hope and peace. 



1 66 A Treasury of 

Like children in a darkened room we cry, 
Despairing of the light when 'tis most nigh. . . . 
The callow bird must wait its wings to fly, 
And so must thou ! God's love is law in love, 
Working in elements of moral strife 
That will not yield obedience but with pain. 

"Perfect through suffering." Comprehend'st thou 

that? 
Upon the cross who was it, dying, cried. 
In the last agony that rends the soul : 
'' Eh ! Eli ! lama sabacthani ! " 
No other way ! Christ, too, must drink that cup 
Before His human life was made divine 
And our redemption possible from sin ! 
Or if a gentler lesson thou would'st learn. 
Dismayed at those tremendous mysteries. 
Think of the birds, the lilies, all things He 
Takes care of to the end : why not of thee ? 
But while their round of life is here complete, 
Thine but begins ! The law of laws is love. 
That needs two worlds to perfect all of man, 
And an eternity to teach God's ways ! . . . 



MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT 

JACQUES CARTIER 

NO flame of war was he, no flower of grace. 
No star of wisdom ; but a plain, bold man. 
More careful of the end than of the plan. 
No mystery was he afraid to face ; 
No savage strategy, no furious storm. 

No stings of cKmate, no unthought disease : 
His master purpose would not bend to these, 
But saw, through all, achievement's towering form. 



Canadian Verse 167 

He first beheld the gloomy Saguenay, 
And Stadacona's high, forbidding brow ; 
His venturous vision too did first survey 

Fair Hochelaga, but not fair as now. 

St. Malo holds his dust, the world his fame, 
But his strong, dauntless soul 'tis ours to claim. 



SOVEREIGN MOMENTS 

LIFE has two sovereign moments ; 
One when we settle down 
To some life-worthy purpose, — 
One when we grasp the crown. 



THE MERCY OF GOD 

THEY have a saying in the East : — 
Two angels note the deeds of men. 
And one is first and one is least. 
When men do right, one takes his pen 
And magnifies the deed to ten. 
This angel is at God's right hand. 
And holds the other in command. 
He says to him when men do wrong, 
" The man was weak, temptation strong, - 
" Write not the record down to-day ; 
" To-morrow he may grieve and pray." 
It may be myth ; but this is sooth — 
No ruth is lasting as God's ruth ; 
The strongest is the tenderest ; 
He who best knows us loves us best. 



1 68 A Treasury of 

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN 

THE RAILWAY STATION 

THE darkness brings no quiet here, the Hght 
No waking : ever on my blinded brain 
The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain. 
The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite : 
I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, 
Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain : 
I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train 
Move laboring out into the bourneless night. 

So many souls within its dim recesses. 
So many bright, so many mournful eyes : 
Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and 
guesses ; 

What threads of life, what hidden histories. 

What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, 
What unknown thoughts, what various agonies ! 

OUTLOOK 

NOT to be conquered by these headlong days. 
But to stand free : to keep the mind at brood 
On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude 
Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways ; 
At every thought and deed to clear the haze 
Out of our eyes, considering only this. 
What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, 
This is to live, and win the final praise. 

Though strife, ill fortune, and harsh human need 
Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb 
With agony ; yet, patience — there shall come 

Many great voices from life's outer sea. 

Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, 
Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. 



Canadian Verse 169 



AMONG THE MILLET 

THE dew is gleaming in the grass, 
The morning hours are seven ; 
And I am fain to watch you pass, 

Ye soft white clouds of heaven. 
Ye stray and gather, part and fold ; 

The wind alone can tame you ; 
I think of what in time of old 

The poets loved to name you. 
They called you sheep, the sky your sward, 

A field without a reaper ; 
They called the shining sun your lord, 

The shepherd wind your keeper. 
Your sweetest poets I will deem 

The men of old for moulding. 
In simple beauty, such a dream, — 

And I could lie beholding, 
Where daisies in the meadow toss, 

The wind from morn till even 
Forever shepherd you across 

The shining field of heaven. 



THE LOONS 

ONCE ye were happy, once by many a shore. 
Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray. 
Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay 
Floating at rest ; but that was long of yore. 
He was too good for earthly men ; he bore 
Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, 
And then at last he took his unseen way. 
He was your friend, and ye might rest no more. 

And now, though many hundred altering years 
Have passed, among the desolate northern meres 
Still must ye search and wander querulously, 



I70 A Treasury of 

Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light 
With weird entreaties, and in agony 
With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. 



THE SUN CUP 

THE earth is the cup of the sun, 
That he filleth at morning with wine,- 
With the warm, strong wine of his might 
From the vintage of gold and of light. 
Fills it, and makes it divine. 



And at night when his journey is done, 
At the gate of his radiant hall, 
He setteth his lips to the brim. 
With a long last look of his eye, 
And lifts it and draineth it dry, — 
Drains till he leaveth it all 
Empty and hollow and dim. 

And then, as he passes to sleep. 
Still full of the feats that he did 
Long ago in Olympian wars, 
He closes it down with the sweep 
Of its slow-turning luminous lid. 
Its cover of darkness and stars, 
Wrought once by Hephaestus of old 
With violet and vastness and gold. 



AFTER RAIN 

FOR three whole days across the sky, 
In sullen packs that loomed and broke, 
With flying fringes dim as smoke, 
The columns of the rain went by ; 



Canadian Verse 17 

At every hour the rain w nt by ; 
At every hour the wind Lvvoke ; 

The darkness passed upon the plain ; 

The great drops rattled at the pane. 

Now piped the wind, or far aloof 
Fell to a sough remote and dull ; 
And all night long with rush and lull 
The rain kept drumming on the roof : 
I heard till ear and sense were full 
The clash or silence of the leaves, 
The gurgle in the creaking eaves. 



But when the fourth day came — at noon, 
The darkness and the rain were by ; 
The sunward roofs w^ere steaming dry ; 
And all the world was flecked and strewn 
With shadows from a fleecy sky. 

The haymakers were forth and gone, 
And every rillet laughed and shone. 

Then, too, on me that loved so well 
The world, despairing in her blight, 
UpHfted with her least delight, 
On me, as on the earth, there fell 
New happiness of mirth and might ; 

I strode the valleys pied and still ; 

I climbed upon the breezy hill. 

I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop, 

Sole shadow on the shining world ; 

I saw the mountains clothed and curled. 

With forest ruffling to the top ; 

I saw the river's length unfurled, 
Pale silver down the fruited plain. 
Grown great and stately with the rain. 



172 A Treasury of 

Through miles of shadow and soft heat, 
Where field and fallow, fence and tree. 
Were all one world of greenery, 
I heard the robin singing sweet, 
The sparrow piping silverly, 

The thrushes at the forest's hem ; 

And as I went I sang with them. 



JUNE 

LONG, long ago, it seems, this summer morn, 
That pale-browed April passed with pensive 
tread 
Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound 
bed 
Woke the arbutus with her silver horn ; 

And now May, too, is fled, 
The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May, 

With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet. 
Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay 
With tulips and the scented violet. 

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue. 
And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more 
The snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor ; 

The purpling grasses are no longer young, 
And summer's wide-set door 

O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth 
Lets in the torrent of the later bloom, 

Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth. 

The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume. 

All day in garden alleys moist and dim, 
The humid air is burdened with the rose ; 
In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows ; 

And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymn 
From every orchard close 



Canadian Verse 173 

At eve comes flooding rich and silvery ; 

The daisies in great meadows swing and shine ; 
And with the wind a sound as of the sea 

Roars in the maples and the topmost pine. 

High in the hills the solitary thrush 

Tunes magically his music of fine dreams, 
In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams ; 

And wide and far on nebulous fields aflush 
The mellow morning gleams. 

The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there. 
The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue, 

And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair. 
And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew. 

So with thronged voices and unhasting flight 

The fervid hours with long return go by ; 

The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high. 
Tell the slow moments of the solemn night 

With unremitting cry ; 
Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouth 

The planets gleam ; the baleful Scorpion 
Trails his dim fires along the droused south ; 

The silent world-incrusted round moves on. 

And all the dim night long the moon's white beams 
Nestle deep down in every brooding tree, 
And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee. 

Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams. 
And carol brokenly. 

Dim surging motions and uneasy dreads 

Scare the light slumber from men's busy eyes, 

And parted lovers on their restless beds 

Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs. 

Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee, 
As dreamers of old time were wont to feign, 
In living form of flesh, and striven in vain ; 

Yet when some sudden old-world mystery 
Of passion fixed my brain, 



174 A Treasury of 

Thy shape hath flashed upon me hke no dream, 
Wandering with scented curls that heaped the 
breeze, 

Or by some hollow of some reeded stream 
Sitting waist-deep in white anemones ; 

And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone, 
A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy, 
Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employ 

The golden magic clung, a light that shone 
And filled rae with thy joy. 

Before me like a mist that streamed and fell 
All names and shapes of antique beauty passed 

In garlanded procession, with the swell 

Of flutes between the beechen stems ; and, last, 

I was the Arcadian valley, the loved wood, 
Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore. 
And through the cool green glades, awake once 
more. 
Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued, 

Fleet-footed as of yore. 
The noonday ringing with her frighted peals, 

Down the bright sward and through the reeds she 
ran. 
Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels 

The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan. 



SEPTEMBER 

NOW hath the summer reached her golden close, 
And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul, 
Scarcely perceives from her divine repose 

How near, how swift, the inevitable goal : 
Still, still she smiles, though from her careless feet 
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone, 
And through the soft long wandering days goes on 
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet. 



Canadian Verse 175 

The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled, 
Children of hght, too fearful of the gloom ; 

The sun falls low, the secret word is said, 

The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb ; 

Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace. 
The corn-flower and the marguerite ; and no more 
Across the river's shadow-haunted floor 

The paths of skimming swallows interlace. 

Already in the outland wilderness 
The forests echo with unwonted dins ; 

In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press 
Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins. 

Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines 
Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake, 
Already in the frost-clear morns awake 

The crash and thunder of the faUing pines. 

Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free. 
Naked and yellow from the harvest lies, 

By many a loft and busy granary, 

The hum and tumult of the threshers rise ; 

There the tanned farmers labor without slack. 
Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill. 
Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will 

Pitching waist-deep upon the dusky stack. 

Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass, 
Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet 

The leaf, the water, the beloved grass ; 

Still from these haunts and this accustomed seat 

I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light, 

The blue, long-shadowed distance, and, between. 
The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green. 

The dark pine forest and the watchful height. 

I see the broad rough meadow stretched away 
Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod, 



176 A Treasury of 

Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray, 
Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod ; 

And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn 

With shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with 

weed. 
Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed. 

Long silver fleeces shining like the moon. 

In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dry 

Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half 
concealed 

In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie. 
Full-ribbed ; and in the windless pasture-field 

The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground 
Stand pensively about in companies, 
While all around them from the motionless trees 

The long clean shadows sleep without a sound. 

Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream, 
Moveless as air ; and o'er the vast warm earth 

The fathomless dayhght seems to stand and dream, 
A liquid cool elixir — all its girth 

Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency, 
Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills 
The utmost valleys and the thin last hills, 

Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity. 

Thus without grief the golden days go by, 
So soft we scarcely notice how they wend. 

And like a smile half happy, or a sigh. 
The summer passes to her quiet end ; 

And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves 
Shy frosts shall take the creepers by surprise. 
And through the wind-touched reddening woods 
shall rise 

October with the rain of ruined leaves. 



Canadian Verse 177 



THE GOAL OF LIFE 

THERE is a beauty at the goal of life, 
A beauty growing since the world began, 
Through every age and race, through lapse and strife, 
Till the great human soul complete her span. 
Beneath the waves of storm that lash and burn, 
The currents of blind passion that appal, 
To listen and keep watch till we discern 
The tide of sovereign truth that guides it all ; 
So to address our spirits to the height, 
And so attune them to the valiant whole. 
That the great light be clearer for our light. 
And the great soul the stronger for our soul : 
To have done this is to have lived, though fame 
Remember us with no familiar name. 



MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON 
THE FACE IN THE CATHEDRAL 

IT was one of those grand cathedrals, 
" A poem in wood and stone," 
Fashioned by master-builders, 
For the glory of God alone. 
The sound of hammer and chisel 

From morning till night was there, 
As it rose in its Gothic grandeur, 
A temple so vast and fair ! 

Workmen from every nation 

With skill and craft had planned 
Column and nave and chancel, 

All wrought with cunning hand. 
Strength was inlaid with beauty — 

A goodly sight to see 
The rainbow light through the mullioned panes 

Of that glorious sanctuary ! 



178 A Treasury of 

One day past the crowd of watchers 

Came a man with silver hair, 
And asked of the master-builder 

For leave to labor there. 
The workmen stood in wonder, 

For the stranger's eyes were dim. 
And the hands so thin and nerveless 

Ne'er told of work in him. 

The master smiled as he answered, 

" Our men must be strong and true, 
Able, as well as willing, 

For the work they have to do ; 
Your skill and your strength are over." 

" Try me," the old man said, 
" Let me but work in the windowed niche 

Of the turret above my head." 

And the master in pity yielded 

To the pleading of voice and eye. 
The old man climbed the minster stairs, 

To the window aslant the sky ; 
And there where the sunrise glory 

Fell first through the diamond pane, 
And pillar and arch and chancel 

Were bathed in golden rain. 

Day after day on the panel 

He had won from the builder's grace. 
His trembHng hands were busy, 

Carving a single face ; 
Silent, and always keeping 

From watchers and workers aloof, 
There by the oriel window, 

Under the fretted roof. 

But once when the sun was setting, 
And the minster's walls were dim. 



Canadian Verse 179 

The workmen waited and listened — 

What had befallen him ? 
He stood not before the panel, 

Nor came down the lofty stair, 
Yet the light of the turret window 

Was shining upon him there ! 

For he lay in the quiet shadow 

That follows the setting sun ; 
His tired hands were folded, — 

The old man's work was done ! 
And fresh from the shining panel, 

Finished with perfect grace. 
Looked down on the pale dead artist 

A pure, young, tender face. 

Fresh in its dewy softness, 

As a rose in the light may glow. 
The face that had made the sunshine 

Of his life in the long ago ; 
And the love, through whose perfect fulness 

Our nature becomes divine. 
Had transferred from his faithful keeping 

That face to this holy shrine. 

There in its place of beauty. 

Eyes turned to the rising sun, 
He had made her face immortal, — 

He died, for his work was done ! 

In that grand old English temple 

There are marvels of wondrous skill. 
Where the brain and hand of the craftsman 

Have worked with a perfect will ; 
But naught has the grace and beauty 

Of the face in the niche above ; — 
Their work was for gain or glory. 

But his was done for Love ! 



i8o A Treasury of 

SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE 

THE BROOK 

RIPPLE, ripple, ripple, 
Goes the little brook, 
Ripple, ripple, ripple. 

Backward casts no look ; 
On through vale and woodland, 
And flowery meadows green, 
Staying not its progress 
To see or to be seen. 



Ripple, ripple, ripple. 

Bubbling on its way, 
Ripple, ripple, ripple — 

Hark ! I hear it say : 
O fooHsh man, why dwellest thou 

On themes of long ago ? 
Pass by the old, take up the new, 

Time's fleeting — let me go ! 



LILY ALICE LEFEVRE 

IMPRISONED 

WITHIN, a panic stricken throng 
That sudden fear appals, 
In blindest fury crashing close 
Wide doors to rigid walls — 
A wild fierce struggle, life or death, 
Each holding ground with gasping breath 
Until the weaker falls, — 
Each inch of room a battle-field 
Where one exults and one must yield. 



Canadian Verse i8i 

Without, the boundless earth and air, 

The depths of starry space, 

Vast oceans that the strong white moon 

Uphfts to her embrace ; 

Free winds of heaven blowing light, 

Far planets wheeling through the night 

To their appointed place, — 

Marvels unseen to captives there, 

Imprisoned by their own despair. 

Within the gloomy walls of Doubt 

Fierce factions wage their war ; 

Fair Hope lies slain where they have set 

Negation's iron bar. 

Pent in their narrow bounds they cry, 

" No stars, no sky, — we struggle, die. 

And know not why we are." 

Oh, self-immured ! ye cannot see ? 

Stand back ! — your brother shall be free. 

Stand back ! — from 'neath your trampling feet 

The young, the weak shall rise. 

Their white lips breathe in silent pain 

The prayer your pride denies ; 

Their pale hands clasp the faded flowers 

Of faith that bloomed in happier hours 

Beneath their childhood's skies. 

Oh, still for these within your walls 

May justice, truth and self-control 

Set wide the gateways of the soul 

To where, beyond, God's glory calls 

Man's spirit to its goal. 

INSPIRATION 

A LARK sprang up to greet the dawn 
Close to a rose one day, 
The tears upon her glowing cheek 
His light wing brushed away, 



1 82 A Treasury of 

Her fragrant beauty fresh and fair 
He kissed in passing by, 
And wove her name into his song 
Of rapture in the sky. 



The lonely rose sighed, "Ah, my love, 
I cannot follow thee ; 
Far, far above in golden light 
Thou hast forgotten me. 
Yet am I blest for evermore 
Though but an instant dear, — 
Thou singest now a sweeter song 
For all the world to hear ! " 



R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON 

THE HURON CHIEFS DAUGHTER 

THE dusky warriors stood in groups around the 
funeral pyre ; 
The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their 

vengeful ire. 
It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern 

and rude. 
To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood. . . . 

O lovely was that winsome child of a dark and 

rugged line. 
And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair surpassing 

might she shine : 
For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, 

sunnier smile. 
Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of 

winsome wile. . . . 



Canadian Verse 183 

And, yet it was not wonderful, that haughty, high- 
born grace — 

She stood amid her direst foes a Princess of her race ; 

Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 
'gainst her name. 

To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and 
flame. . . . 



One moment, — then her proud glance fled, her form 

she humbly bowed, 
A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to 

heaven aloud : 
" Hear me. Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector 

of my race, 
Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to 

face ! 



"Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they 

triumphant rise 
Above the guileful Iroquois — Thine and our enemies ; 
And give me strength to bear each pang with courage 

high and free. 
That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with 

Thee." 



Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and 

sceptered Queen, 
She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien. 
E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two 

warriors dire 
Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit 

funeral pyre. 

Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from 

their grasp, 
" Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of 

poisoned asp ! 



x84 A Treasury of 

My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest 

pride 
That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's 

daughter died ! " 

She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and 

fearless smile. 
And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral 

pile; 
And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their 

cruel part 
They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high 

and dauntless heart. 



WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL 

THE ARTIST'S PRAYER 

T KNOW thee not, O Spirit fair ! 
A O Life and flying Unity 
Of Loveliness ! Must man despair 
Forever in his chase of thee ! 

When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt, 
Then feel I that thou art on high ; 

When fire o'er all the west is spilt. 
Flames at its heart thy majesty. 

Thy beauty basks on distant hills ; 

It smiles in eve's wine-coloured sea ; 
It shakes its fight on leaves and rills, 

In calm ideals it mocks at me. 

Thy glances strike from many a lake 

That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen ; 

Yet to thine eyes I never wake : — 
They glance, but they remain unseen. 



Canadian Verse 185 

I know thee not, O Spirit fair ! 

Thou fillest heaven : the stars are thee : 
Whatever fleets with beauty rare 

Fleets radiant from thy mystery. 

Forever thou art near my grasp ; 

Thy touches pass in twihght air; 
Yet still — thy shapes elude my clasp — 

I know thee not, thou Spirit fair ! 

Ether, proud, and vast, and great. 
Above the legions of the stars ! 

To this thou art not adequate ; — 
Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars. 

1 know thee not, thou Spirit sweet ! 

I chained pursue, while thou art free. 
Sole by the smile I sometimes meet 
I know thou. Vast One, knowest me. 

In old religions hadst thou place : 
Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit ! 

Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute 

Through countless ages dreamt thy grace. 

Gray nations felt thee o'er them tower ; 

Some clothed thee in fantastic dress ; 
Some thought thee as the unknown Power, 

I, e'er the unknown Loveliness. 

To all thou wert as harps of joy ; 

To bard and sage their fulgent sun : 
To priests their mystic life's employ ; 

But unto me the Lovely One. 

Veils^lothed thy might ; veils draped thy charm ; 

Thf might they tracked, but I the grace ; 
They learnt all forces were thine Arm, 

I that all beauty was thy Face. 



r86 A Treasury of 

Night spares us little. Wanderers we. 

Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare 
But shape our darknesses of thee, — 

We know thee not, thou Spirit fair ! 



Would that thine awful Peerlessness 

An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth, 

And I the maddening power possess 
To drink the cup, — O Godlike birth ! 

All life impels me to thy search : 
Without thee, yea, to live were null ; 

Still shall I make the dawn thy Church, 
And pray thee " God the Beautiful." 



THE SWEET STAR 

THE sweet Star of the Bethlehem night 
Beauteous guides and true, 
And still, to me and you 

With only local, legendary light. 



For us who hither look with eyes afar 
From constellations of philosophy, 

All light is from the Cradle ; the true star, 
Serene o'er distance, in the Life we see. 



MY NATIVE LAND 

ROME, Florence, Venice — noble, fair and quaint. 
They reign in robes of magic round me here ; 
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, 

With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. 
Plead not ! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim ! 
I see the fields, I see the autumn hand 



Canadian Verse 187 

Of God upon the maples ! Answer Him 
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand 

Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst ! 

I see the sun break over you ; the mist 
On hills that lift from iron bases grand 
Their heads superb ! — the dream, it is my native 
land. 



STUART LIVINGSTON 

THE VOLUNTEERS OF '85 

WIDE are the plains to the north and the west- 
ward; 
Drear are the skies to the west and the north — 
Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, 

And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. 
Cold are the plains to the north and the westward. 

Stretching out far to the gray of the sky — 
Little they cared as they marched from the barrack- 
room. 
Willing and ready, if need be, to die. 

Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets ; 

Firm and erect was each man in his place ; 
Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans ; 

Smiling and fearless was every face ; 
Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them ; 

Never a fear of war's terrible scenes ; 
" Brave as the bravest " was stamped on each face of 
them ; 

Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. 

Many a woman gazed down at them longingly. 
Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed ; 

Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of 
him, 
Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. 



1 88 A Treasury of 

Many a maiden's cheek ])aled as she looked at them, 
Seeing the lover from whom she must part ; 

Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, 
Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart. 

Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, 

Beat as it never had beaten before ; 
Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, 

Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. 
Proud ! were we proud of them ? God ! they were 
part of us, 

Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight ; 
Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all. 

Eager to battle for her and the right. 

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward. 

Stretching out far to the gray of the sky — 
Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room. 

Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. 
Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of 
them ; 

Straight on they marched to the dread battle's 
brunt — 
Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, 

Canada's call found them all at the front. 



TO E. N. L. 

THOU sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by 
Who in the infinite dost walk to-day, 
And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I 
Lift up but lips of clay — 

Oft do I think on thee, thou steadfast heart, 

Who, when the summons dread was in thine ear, 

Didst raise thy calm brow up and challenge death. 
As one that knows no fear. 



Canadian Verse 189 

And I have wondered if thy passionate Hps 

Now voice the songs that surged within thy heart ; 

By the great alchemy of mighty death 
Freed to diviner art. 



And didst thou find a welcome on the shore 
That rims the vastness of that shadow land ? 

Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore 
Stretch thee a greeting hand ? 

And did they gather round about thee there, 
With faces gray against the coming day ; 

And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips, 
Teach thee their mighty lay ? — 

Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips. 
Was filled with such great harmony of song 

As gave thee place among their matchless selves, 
A brother of the throng. 



THE KING'S FOOL 

IN sooth he was a mighty King, 
And ruled in splendid state. 
Surrounded by a haughty band 

Of nobles small and great ; 
And he was good to one and all. 
Yet they were plotting for his fall. 

For though a king be good and great 

And generous, I trow 
His nobles yet will envy him. 

And seek his overthrow ; 
For so hath been the ancient strife 
Since man first took his sovereign's life. 



I90 A Treasury of 

And thus, to gain their foul design, 

They planned to lie in wait, 
And drop a deadly poison in 

The golden flagon great, 
That never more the King should rule ; 
And no one heard them but the fool. 

So when the King came down that night 

Into his hall to dine, 
He found his flagon in its place, 

And at its side the wine — 
The blood-red wine — at which he said, 
"Such wine should put life in the dead !" 

Then poured he full the poisoned cup. 

And, raising it on high. 
O'er all his courtiers in the hall 

He ran his noble eye : 
" Oh, I would drink," he said, with zest, 
" Unto the man that loves me best ! " 

Then mute they sat around the board. 
And each looked to the other. 

Till rose, with mocking reverence. 
The fool, and said, " Good brother, 

All round this board, of every guest, 

I am the man that loves thee best." 

Then wrothful was the King, and said, 

" Thou art no man, I wis, 
That makest such a silly jest 

At such a time as this. 
Give us a better jest," he said, 
" Or pay the forfeit with thy head." 

Then quoth the fool, " My good liege lord, 

I'll give another jest, 
But after it, I tell thee now. 

That I will take my rest. 



Canadian Verse 191 

No more to be thy jester," and 

He snatched the flagon from his hand. 

Then dark became the King's great brow, 

Amazed was every guest, 
While with the flagon at his Hps 

The fool quoth, " This sweet jest 
That man, I trow, will best divine 
Who poured such strength into this wine " — 

Then drained the goblet at a draught, 

And set it down anon. 
While round the board each face grew pale. 

And strange to look upon ; 
Then sank the fool into his place, 
And on the table laid his face. 



Amid the silence stood the King, 

As if perplexed with doubt ; 
He looked upon his poor dead fool, 

And then looked round about ; 
And then in thunder called the guard 
That near him kept their watch and ward. 

He bid them take the traitors forth 

And put them all to death. 
"Would God," he cried, "their lives could give 

My poor fool back his breath — 
My poor dead fool, whose silent breast 
Doth show, too late, he loved me best ! " 

This is the legend of a fool 

Who died his king to save. 
And to its truth a monument 

Was built above his grave ; 
And on it in gold this wording ran, 



192 A Treasury of 



KEATS 

A YOUNG-EYED seer, amid the leafy ways 
Of Latmos' groves, sacred to mighty Pan, 
Afar from all the busy marts of man. 
Content to seek the beautiful, he strays ; 
With mild eyes lifted in their starry gaze 
Of ravishment divine, a priest, he stands 
Before the altar builded by his hands, 
And on his pipe, with paUid lip, he plays. 

This night, O god-like singer, have I knelt 
Before that altar listening to thy strain, 
Till off my soul mortality did melt. 

Dissolved from all weariness of pain ; 
And at thy magic melody I felt 
All life were mine, could I such rapture drain. 



ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART 

ACADIE 

LIKE mists that round a mountain gray 
Hang for an hour, then melt away, 
So I, and nearly all my race, 
Have vanished from my native place. 

Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams 
More beautiful in fancy seems ; 
Yet if I to those scenes repair 
I find I am a stranger there. 

O thou beloved Acadie, 
Sweet is thy charmed world to me ! 
Dull are these skies 'neath which I range. 
And all the summer hills are strange. 



o 



Canadian Verse 193 

Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam 
In sparkles of the chiming stream ; 
And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore 
The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore. 

And sometimes will mine eyes incline 
To hill or wood that seems like thine ; 
Or, if the robin pipeth clear, 
It is thy vernal note I hear. 

And oft my heart will leap aflame 
To deem I hear thee call my name, — 
To see thy face with gladness shine, 
And find the joy that once was mine. 



THE WATERS OF CARR 

DO you hear the merry waters falling. 
In the mossy woods of Carr ? 
O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling. 
Through its cloistral deeps afar ? 
'Tis the Indian's babe, they say, 
Fairy stolen ; changed a fay ; 
And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling, 
In the mossy woods of Carr ! 

O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping 

(Dim and drowsy every star). 
This little one her happy revels keeping 
In her halls of shining spar ? 
Clearer swells her voice of glee, 
While the liquid echoes flee. 
And the full moon through deep green leaves comes 
peeping, 
In the dim-lit woods of Carr. 

Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her, 

Wanton-willing, far away, — 
Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her, 

Changed her to a laughing fay ? 

N 



194 A Treasury of 

Never doth her bosom burn, 
Never asks she to return ; — 
Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her 
Laughing, singing, all the day ! 

And often, when the golden west is burning, 

Ere the twilight's earliest star. 
Comes her mother, led by mortal yearning 
Where the haunted forests are ; — 
Listens to the rapture wild 
Of her vanished fairy child : 
Ah, see her then, with smiles and tears, returning 
From the sunset woods of Carr ! 

They feed her with the amber dew and honey. 

They bathe her in the crystal spring. 
They set her down in open spaces sunny, 
And weave her an enchanted ring ; 
They will not let her beauty die, 
Her innocence and purity ; 
They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many, 
And ever round her dance and sing. 

O do you hear the merry waters falling, 

In the mossy woods of Carr ? 
O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling, 
Through its cloistral deeps afar ? 
Never thrill of plaintive pain 
Mingles with that ceaseless strain ; — 
But still I hear her joyous calling, calling. 
In the morning woods of Carr ! 

THE LONELY PINE 

I 

REMOTE, upon the sunset shrine 
Of a green hill, a lonely pine 
Beckons this hungry heart of mine. 



Canadian Verse 

" Draw near," it always seems to say, 
Look thither whensoe'er I may 
From the dull routine of my way : 

" I hold for thee the heavens in trust ; 
My priestly branches toward thee thrust. 
Absolve thy fret, assoil thy dust." 



Yet if I come it heeds not me ; 
The stars amid the branches see 
But lonely man and lonely tree, — 

And lonely earth that holds in thrall 
Her creatures, while Eve gathers all 
To fold within her shadowy wall. 

Now, with this spell around me thrown, 
Dreaming of social pleasures flown, 
I grieve, yet joy, to be alone j 

While whispering through its solitude, 
Far from its green-robed brotherhood, 
The pine tree shares my wonted mood. 

It museth that felicity 

Which, being not, we deem may be, 

And mingles hope and certainty. 

Ill 

In starry senate doth arise 
The lumined spirit of the skies. 
Walking with radiant ministries. 

Yet in my lonely pine tree dwells, 

When 'mid its breast the warm wind swells, 

A prophet of sweet oracles. 



195 



196 A Treasury of 

Like a faint sea on far-off shore, 

With its low elfin roll and roar, 

It speaks one language evermore ; — 

One language, unconstrained and free, 
The converse of the answering sea, 
The old rune of Eternity. 

Then, from this lonely sunset shrine, 
I turn to toils and cares of mine, 
And, grateful, bless my healing pine. 



BURTON W. LOCKHART 

From "THE RETROSPECT" 

O BROTHERS ! thro' how many lands 
We've sought the Holy Grail ! 
Lo, here is truth ! Lo, there she stands ! — 
Bow down, and cry, " All hail ! " 

Still she looks on us far withdrawn, 
With stars and clouds bedight ; 

The vision of our spirit's dawn, 
The watch-fire of our night. 

Trust thy soul's highest vision — trust ! 

Think not to touch or taste : 
Time's ancient mystery — poor dust ! — 

For thee will not make haste. 

The noble still must seek the light ; 

The doctrinaire still raves ; 
But Faith holds fast, while the long night 

Shines o'er our fathers' graves. 



Canadian Verse 197 



LOVE AND SONG 

LOVE sayeth : Sing of me ! 
What else is worth a song ? 
I had refrained 
Lest I should do Love wrong. 

" Clean hands, and a pure heart," 
I prayed, "and I will sing:" 

But all I gained 
Brought to my word no wing. 

Stars, sunshine, seas and skies, 
Earth's graves, the holy hills, 

Were all in vain ; 
No breath the dumb pipe fills. 

I dreamed of splendid praise. 
And Beauty watching by 

Gray shores of Pain : 
My song turned to a sigh. 

I saw in virgin eyes 

The mother warmth that makes 

The dead earth quick 
In ways no Spring awakes. 

No song. In vain to sight 

Life's clear arch heavenward sprang. 

Heart still, or sick ! 
— / loved I Ah^ then I sang ! 



BY THE GASPEREAU 

DO you remember, dear, a night in June, 
So long, so long ago, 
When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, 
Beside the Gaspereau ? 



198 A Treasury of 

The river plashed and gurgled thro' its glooms, 

Slow stealing to the sea, 
A silver serpent ; in the apple blooms 

The soft air rustled free. 

And o'er the river from afar the sound 

Of mellow tinkhng bells 
From browsing cattle stirred the echo round 

In gentle falls and swells. 

No sound of human sorrow, nor of mirth, 

Streamed on that peace abroad, 
And all the night leaned low upon the earth 

Like the calm face of God. 

And in our hearts there breathed, like life, a breath 

Of most dehcious pain : 
It seemed a whisper ran from birth to death. 

And back to birth again, 

And bound in airy chains our shining hours. 

Past, present, and to come. 
In one sweet whole, strong to defy the powers 

Of change, till Time be dumb. 

Yes, you remember, dear, that night in June, 

So long, so long ago, 
When we were lovers, wandering with the moon. 

Beside the Gaspereau. 



JOHN E. LOGAN 

THE INDIAN MAID'S LAMENT 

A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon, 
Hung round the moon. Ah me ! Ah me ! 
I heard the piping of the Loon, 
A wounded Loon. Ah me ! 



Canadian Verse 199 

And yet the eagle feathers rare 

I, trembHng, wove in my brave's hair. 

He left me in the early morn, 

The early morn. Ah me ! Ah me ! 

The feathers swayed like stately corn, 
So like the corn. Ah me ! 

A fierce wind swept across the plain, 

The stately corn was snapt in twain. 

They crushed in blood the hated race, 
The hated race. Ah me ! Ah me ! 

I only clasped a cold, blind face. 
His cold, dead face. Ah me ! 

A blood-red ring hangs in my sight, 

I hear the Loon cry every night. 



AGNES MAULE MACHAR 

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE 

SANS peur et sans reproche ! — our lion-heart 
To whom we turn when other hopes betray, 
When tyrant-might puts forth her power to slay 
Young, struggling Freedom, with her poisoned dart, 
And Britain hath forgot the nobler part 

She played, as Freedom's champion, — that proud 

day 
She led a world to break one despot's sway, — 
And from her old traditions stands apart. 

Milton hath gone, and Wordsworth, — but, through 
thee. 

Still rings their hate of tyranny defied ; 
Still breathes the voice whose sound was "of the sea," 

And that one "of the mountains ;" — far and wide 
Their echoes roll, where'er true Britons be. 

Or men for liberty have lived and died ! 



200 A Treasury of 

SCHILLER'S DYING VISION 

("Many things are growing clearer.") 



AS the light beyond draws nearer, 
Streaming from the farther shore, 
Many things are growing clearer 
I but dimly guessed before, — 
How those legends quaint and olden 

Veiled a truth beyond their ken, 
In their tales of ages golden, 

When immortals walked with men : 

How, in symbol and in shadow. 

Light through darkness dimly broke, 
Poesy illumed the meadow. 

And the woodland's music woke ; 
And the spirits, softly sighing 

Through the forest, in the stream. 
On the wind's swift pinions flying. 

Were not all an idle dream ! 



Now I see how Faith immortal 

Oft hath worn a fable's guise, 
While she lingered at the portal 

Of unfathomed mysteries ', — 
How the vague, half-conscious dreamings 

Of earth's artless, questioning youth 
Were but iridescent gleamings 

From the inmost heart of Truth. 

How the clear Hellenic vision 
Read the soul in Nature's face, 

And the gods of her tradition 

Made the earth their dwelling place, — 



Canadian Verse 201 

Throned on peaks of hoary mountains, 

Walking earth in form divine, 
While, in spray of silvery fountains, 

Naiads' gleaming tresses shine ! 

Dryads, in the forest-shadow, 

Whispered light at eve and dawn. 
And the fairies, on the meadow. 

Danced a measure with the Faun ; 
Radiant forms to earth descending 

In the moonlight, with the dew, — 
Earthly grace with heavenly blending, — 

Shone before the poet's view. 



'Tis a truth profound that dwelleth 

In these bright and broken gleams 
Of the glory that excelleth 

Noblest poet's fairest dreams ! 
For, with eyes no longer holden. 

We may trace a presence bright 
In the sunset's radiance golden, 

In the dawn's pale rosy light ; 

In the beauty round us glowing. 

And in Nature's wondrous course, 
We may trace, with surer knowing, 

Her eternal spring and source ; 
And, still more, the deathless story 

Through the ages we may read. 
How infinite Love and Glory 

Bent themselves to human need, — 

How the asphodel forever 

Fades before the amaranth bright — 
Light hath touched the Stygian river. 

Dawn the Acherontian night ! — 



202 A Treasury of 

For we hear a voice supernal 
Tell us Pluto's reign is o'er, 

And the rays of Love eternal 
Light our path for evermore ! 

Love and Hope and Truth and Duty 

Guide the upward-striving soul, 
Still evolving higher beauty 

As the ages onward roll ; 
Till the light of consecration 

Glorify earth's radiant clod. 
And Life's highest Incarnation — 

God in man — draw man to God ! 



LOVE AND FAITH 

FAITH spread her wings to seek the realms of day ; 
Unfathomable depths before her lay. 
Hope drooped beside her, as there stretched afar. 
Space beyond space, outreaching endlessly, 

The faintest gleam of the remotest star. 
Her heart grew faint, her wings flagged heavily ; 
Vain seemed the quest, and endless seemed the way. 

Then Love cried out, with voice that pierced the 
night : 

" Lo, I am here ! " and straight all space was light ; 
Darkness had vanished, and the weary way 
Was all forgotten in the vision bright — 

For Faith had reached the glorious gates of day ! 



A MADONNA OF THE ENTRY 

I 

IN a city of churches and chapels, 
From belfry and spire and tower, 
In the solemn and starlit silence, 
The bells chimed the midnight hour. 



Canadian Verse 203 

Then in silvery tones of gladness 

They rang in the Christmas morn — 
The wonderful, mystical season 

When Jesus Christ was born. 
All thought of the Babe in the manger, 

— The Child that knew no sin, 
That hung on the breast of the mother 

Who found no room in the inn ! 
All thought of the choir of angels 

That swept through the darkness then, 
To chant forth the glad evangel 

Of peace and love to men ! 



In that city of churches and chapels 

A mother crouched, hungry and cold, 
In a bleak and cheerless entry. 

With a babe in her nerveless hold. 
Hungry and cold and weary, 

She had paced the streets all night — 
No room for her in the city. 

No food, no warmth, no light ! 
And just as the bells' glad chiming 

Pealed in the Christmas day, 
The angels came through the darkness. 

And carried the babe away ! 

No room for one tiny infant 
In that city of churches fair, — 

But the Father hath " many mansions " 
And room for the baby there ! 



204 A Treasury of 

EVAN MACCOLL 
THE CHILD OF PROMISE 

SHE died — as die the roses 
On the ruddy clouds of dawn, 
When the envious sun discloses 
His flame, and morning's gone. 

She died — like snow glad-gracing 
Some sea-marge fair, when, lo ! 

Rude waves, each other chasing, 
Quick hide it 'neath their flow. 

She died — like snow fair showering 
Some sea-marge, when, anon, 

In comes the wave devouring — 
The beautiful is gone. 

She died — as dies the glory 
Of music's sweetest swell : 

She died — as dies the story 
When the best is still to tell ! 

She died — as dies moon-beaming 
When scowls the rayless wave ; 

She died — like sweetest dreaming 
That hastens to its grave. 

She died — and died she early ; 

Heaven wearied for its own. 
As the dipping sun, my Mary, 

Thy morning ray went down ! 



Canadian Verse 205 



GLENORCHY 

TALK not to me of Tempe's flowery vale, 
With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view ! 
If of its charms he sung, I would right well 
Believe the Grecian poet's picture true. 

What were his boasted groves in scent and hue 
To lady-birches and the stately pine, 
The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue ? 
Be his the laurel — the red heath be mine ! 

No faun nor dryad here I care to see, 

More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe 
Sport with his mate behind the forest tree ; 

Nor less the joy when in the glen below 

Some milking Hebe sings her luinneag free, 
All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow. 



ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD 

A SONG OF SEASONS 

SING a song of Spring-time ! 
Catkins by the brook. 
Adders-tongues uncounted, 

Ferns in every nook ; 
The cataract on the hillside 

Leaping like a fawn ; 
Sing a song of Spring-time, — 
Ah, but Spring-time's gone ! 

Sing a song of Summer ! 

Flowers among the grass, 
Clouds like fairy frigates. 

Pools like looking-glass, 
Moonlight through the branches. 

Voices on the lawn ; 
Sing a song of summer, — 

Ah, but Summer's gone ! 



2o6 A Treasury of 

Sing a song of Autumn ! 

Grain in golden sheaves, 
Woodbine's crimson clusters 

Round the cottage eaves, 
Days of crystal clearness. 

Frosted fields at dawn ; 
Sing a song of Autumn, — 

Ah, but Autumn's gone ! 

Sing a song of Winter ! 

North-wind's bitter chill, 
Home and ruddy firelight. 

Kindness and good-will, 
Hemlock in the churches, 

Daytime soon withdrawn ; 
Sing a song of Winter,— 

Ah, but Winter's gone ! 

Sing a song of loving ! 

Let the seasons go ; 
Hearts can make their gardens 

Under sun or snow ; 
Fear no fading blossom. 

Nor the dying day ; 
Sing a song of loving, — 

That will last for aye ! 



JOHN MACFARLANE 
THE TWO ANGELS 

I STOOD and saw the angel of the dawn, 
Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night 
through, 
Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn 
In radiant robes of dew. 



Canadian Verse 207 

And slowly to the west, in ebon gloom, 
Upbearing in his lifted hands on high 

The scroll of destiny— of life and doom — 
The night-watch passed by. 

But ere he turned his step from earth away 

I gazed upon his countenance again, 
And, lo ! I thought upon his brow there lay 

A shadow as of pain. 

But he, the brother-angel of the day, 

Bore on his breast the beaming star of hope. 

And in his golden chalice balm, alway, 
On bruised hearts to drop. 

And so to men there cometh evermore 

One angel fraught with promise, making glad ; 

And one who taketh from the stricken sore 
Much anguish, wild and sad. 



A GRAVE IN SAMOA 

THE wild birds strangely call, 
And silent dawns and purple eves are here, 
Where Southern stars upon his grave look down. 
Calm-eyed and wondrous clear ! 

No strife his resting mars ! 
And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps 
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm, 

Where dark Tantallon keeps. 

For still in plaintive woe. 
By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led. 
The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand 

Mourns for her absent dead : 



2o8 A Treasury of 

Ah I bear him gently home^ 
To where Dunedin's streets are quaint and gray. 
And ruddy lights across the stea7ning rains 

Shine soft at close of day ! " 

A MIDSUMMER MADRIGAL 

AT the postern gate of Day 
Stands Apollo, clad in light, 
Trilling forth a summons gay 
To the wrinkled warder Night : 

" Ho ! old laggard, what has kept ? 

Dost not hear this challenge mine ? 
Well I wot thy beard has dipt 
In the wassail's ruddy wine. 

Song and story, gibe and jest, 
With thy boon companions all ; 

To the donjon of the West 
Now betake thee. Seneschal. 

Ward and watch, and vigil keen, 
Still thy beacon fires confest, 

Blazing in the blue serene ; 

Hie thee, warrior, to thy rest ! " 

And in armor silver-dight, 
As becomes a knight to win, 

At the postern held by Night 
Crowned Apollo enters in. 



KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN 

BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE 

THE rowan tree grows by the tower foot, 
{Flotsam and jet sa7n from over the sea, 
Can the dead feel joy or pain ?) 
And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot, 



Canadian Verse 209 

And the sea-waves bubble around its root, 
Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be, 
When the bat in the dark flies silently. 
{Hark to the wind and the rain !) 

The ladye sits in the turret alone, 

{Flotsam and jetsam fro7n over the sea, 
The dead — can they complain ? ) 
And her long hair down to her knee has grown. 
And her hand is cold as a hand of stone, 
And wan as a hand of flesh may be, 
While the bird in the bower sings merrfly. 
{Hark to the wind and rain !) 

Sadly she leans by her casement side, 
{Plots a7n and jetsam from over the sea, 
Can the dead arise again ? ) 
And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide, 
But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide ; 
The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free. 
And the bird is mute in the rowan tree. 
{Hark to the wind and the rain I) 

The moon shone in on the turret stair, 

{Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, 

The dead are boimd with a chain.) 
And touched her cheek and brightened her hair. 
And found naught else in the world so fair. 

So ghostly fair as the mad ladye. 

While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely. 
{Hark to the wi?td and the rain /) 

The weary days and the months crept on, 
{Flotsam a7id jetsam fro?n over the sea. 
The words of the dead are vai?i.) 
At last the summer was over and gone, 
And still she sat in her turret alone, 

Her white hands clasping about her knee. 
And the bird was mute in the rowan tree. 
{Hark to the wind and the rain I) 
o 



2IO A Treasury of 

Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet, 
{Flotsa??i and jetsam fr 0771 over the sea^ 
The dead — do they walk agai7i ? ) 
Wilder the roar of the surf that beat ; 
Whose was the form that it bore to her feet, 
Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea, 
While the raven croaked in the rowan tree ? 
{Hark to the wind and the rai7i /) 

O Ladye, strange is the silent guest — 
{Fiotsa7n and jetsam cast up by the sea^ 
Can the dead feel so7'row or pain ? ) 
With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast, 
And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed, 
And the wild sad eyes that heed not thee, 
While the raven croaks in the rowan-tree. 
{Hark to the wind and the rain /) 

The tower is dark, and the doors are wide, 
{Flotsa7n and jetsam cast up by the sea, 
The dead are at peace agai7i.) 

Into the harbor the fisher boats ride, 

But two went out with the ebbing tide. 

Without sail, without oar, full fast and free. 
And the raven croaks in the rowan tree. 
{If ark to the wi7id and the rai7i I) 



A' 



BIRD SONG 

RT thou not sweet. 

Oh, world, and glad to the inmost heart 
of thee ! 
All creatures rejoice 
With one rapturous voice. 
As I, with the passionate beat 
Of my over-full heart, feel sweet, 
And all things that live, and are part of thee ! 



Canadian Verse 211 

Light, light as a cloud, 
Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me, 
I float in the deep 
As a bird-dream in sleep, 
And hear the wind murmuring loud, 
Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed, — 
And I see where the secret place of the thunders be. 

Oh ! the sky free and wide, 
With all the cloud-banners flung out in' it ! 
Its singing wind blows 
As a grand river flows, 
And I swim down its rhythmical tide, 
And still the horizon spreads wide, 
With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it ! 

Oh, life, thou art sweet ! 
Sweet, sweet to the inmost heart of thee ! 
I drink with my eyes 
Thy limitless skies. 
And I feel with the rapturous beat 
Of my wings thou art sweet, — 
And I, — I am alive, and a part of thee ! 



ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD 

ALEXANDER MACKENZIE 

DRAW nigh with reverence, Canada ! 
Beyond all strain of mortal toil 
He heth, with unstained crest. 

Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil. 
No higher boon may patriot crave 

Than grateful country's honest tear ; 
Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave, 
With stainless emblem decks the bier. 



212 A Treasury of 

Rare mind ! firm as the granite stone 

From out thy much-loved Scottish hills ; 
Soul, clear as sunlight's upper zone 

When smiling o'er Canadian rills ! 
Oh, well for thee, beloved land. 

That, ripening to thy golden prime. 
Stout hearts, and faithful, held thine hand 

And led thee on to ampler time. 

Embalm his memory, Canada ! 

Nor taint with ill his honored name. 
Who loved thee dearer than his life ; 

Who, serving thee, rejected fame. 
Not now ! — through many an after year, 

In cool, calm retrospect of time. 
Shall all his sterling worth appear, 

In grandeur fitting and sublime. 

Though stilled the aims of lofty end, 

Though leaders in the field lie low. 
Heaven's purposes shall onward tend. 

As ocean wavelets shoreward flow. 
Wail not ! he walketh in the light ; 

His work, imbued with high intent. 
Doth magnify a country's might. 

And build his fairest monument. 



A. D. MACNEILL 
THE SEA-GULL 

FAIR bird, whose silvery pinions sweep 
The hoary bosom of the deep, 
Or braced against the raging gale 
Across the vast of heaven sail, 
I hold thee as a symbol dear 
Of loving hearts who persevere 



Canadian Verse 213 

Amid the woes of life, and brave 
Temptation's dark and forceful wave. 
That sweeps across us unawares ; 
And swooping gusts of froward cares 
That shrewdly vex us. But again, 
When throned upon the tranquil tide 
In snowy robe unflecked of stain. 
You seem a soul beatified. 



DONALD M^CAIG 

THE TRAMP 

ON a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold. 
And soured in the struggle of life, 
With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old, 
Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife. 
And the leaves of the forest fell round him in 

showers, — 
And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow. 
That had warned off the robins to summer bowers. 
Admonished him, too, he should go. 

But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves, 

And the glories of Summer were past ; 

And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves, 

Had left him the weakest and last ! 

So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal 

A disease without pain, without care, — 

Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel, — 

Too utterly lost for despair ! 

But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, 

and gloom. 
That gathered around him so fast, 
Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded 

tomb, 
Of the fair, but the far-distant past ! 



2 14 A Treasury of 

Around him a vision of beauty arose, 
Unpainted, unpencilled by art, — 
His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose, 
From the sad repertoire of the heart. 

And brightly the visions came ghding along 

Through the warm golden gates of the day, — 

With voices of childhood, and music and song, 

Like echoes from lands far away. 

And the glad ringing laughter of girlhood was there, 

And one 'mong the others so dear 

That o'er his life's record, too black for despair, 

Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear ! 

And he held, while he listened, his crust half 

consumed, 
In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak, 
While a glory shone round him that warmed and 

illumed 
The few frozen tears on his cheek. 
In the dark, silent night, thus his spirit had flown, 
Like the sigh of a low passing breath ; — 
Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down 
In the deep, shoreless ocean of death. 

In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way. 

On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around. 

The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay, 

Which the tramp left behind him, were found ! 

And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone, 

Was the image, both youthful and fair. 

Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone, 

And a single white rose in her hair. 

Was he loved ? Was she wed ? Was she daughter 

or wife. 
Or sister ? The world may not read 
Her story or his. They are lost with the life — 
Recorded, "A tramp was found dead !" 



Canadian Verse 215 

"Found dead by the way," in the gloom and the 

cold — 
The boy whom a mother had kissed, 
The son whom a father could proudly enfold, 
The brother a sister had missed ! 



" Found dead by the way ! " whom a maiden's first 

love 
Had hallowed — e'en worshipped in part. 
And clothed in a light from the glory above, 
To enshrine in her pure virgin heart ! 
Found dead, and alone, by the way where he died. 
To be thrown, like a dog, in his lair ! 
Yet he peacefully sleeps, as the stone by his side, 
And rich as the proud millionaire 1 



JAMES M'CARROLL 

A ROYAL RACE 

AMONG the fine old kings that reign 
Upon a simple wooden throne, 
There's one with but a small domain. 
Yet, mark you, it is all his own. 

And though upon his rustic towers 
No ancient standard waves its wing, 

Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers, 
From all the fragrant casements swing. 

And here, in royal homespun, bow 

His nut-brown court, at night and morn,- 

The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough, 
The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn, 



2i6 A Treasury of 

The Keeper of the Golden Stacks, 
The Mistress of the Milking-Pail, 

The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe, 
The Heralds of the Sounding Flail, 

The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay, 
The Master of the Spade and Hoe, 

The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay 
That all the Sons of Freedom know. 

And thus, while on the seasons roll, 
He wins from the inspiring sod 

The brawny arm and noble soul 
That serve his country and his God. 



DAWN 

WITH folded wings of dusky light 
Upon the purple hills she stands, 
An angel between day and night. 
With tinted shadows in her hands — 

Till suddenly transfigured there. 

With all her dazzling plumes unfurled. 

She climbs the crimson-flooded air, 
And flies in glory o'er the world. 



THE GRAY LINNET 

THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush. 
Clothed in sackcloth — a little gray friar 
Like a druid of old in his temple — but hush ! 
He's at vespers ; you must not go nigher. 

Yet, the rogue ! can those strains be addressed to 

the skies, 
And around us so wantonly float. 
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies 
From the silvery reel of his throat ? 



Canadian Verse 217 

When he roams, though he stains not his path through 

the air 
With the splendor of tropical wings, 
All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there 
Flashes forth through his lay when he sings ; 

For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise, 

Though in such a plain garb he appears. 

That on finding he can't reach your soul through 

your eyes. 
He steals in through the gates of your ears. 

But the cheat !— 'tis not heaven he's warbling about- 
Other passions, less holy, betide— 
For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out 
From a bunch of green leaves at his side. 



WILLIAM MCDONNELL 

From "MANITA" 

AS time past onwards, day by day 
Manita by the grave would stay ; 
And often she would steal by night 
To that lone spot to glad her sight . . . 
And many came to hear the song 
She sung at times the whole day long. 
She fancied, too, that flowers and birds 
Were listening to its tender words, 
And that at night the dreaming moon 
Sent echoes to her simple tune — 
It was a loving lay to cheer 
While Ogemah lay sleeping near : 

" I have a little friend 
Up in the tall pine tree. 



2i8 A Treasury of 

In the sunny air he sings, 
Sits and sings with folded wings, 
Sings low and soft down by the lake. 
Lest he should Ogemah awake. 

I have a pretty friend, 
The redbreast in the tree. 
All day for me he sings, 
Word from Ogemah he brings. 
And often warbles by the lake 
To see if he is yet awake." 



BERNARD M'EVOY 
A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW 

THROUGH a Gethsemane of city streets. 
Whose ministering angels seemed from hell. 
And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts, 
Till soul and body writhed in misery, 
I strayed — a hunted mortal — sport of Fate. 
Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face ! 
Calm, peaceful, resolute ; thy comrades true 
Around thee, " helmed and tall ; " ah ! then I knew 
How angels strengthen us in time of need. 
And from thy face drew solace for my smart. 

REVISED PROOFS 

I WATCH the printer's clever hand 
Pick up the type from here and there — 
Make it in ordered row to stand. 
And gather it with practised care. 

Maybe 'twill make the poet's page, 

The leaf of some romantic book, 
The sheet that chronicles the age. 

The tome on which the sa!:];e shall look. 



Canadian Verse 219 

But ah ! not yet ; full well he knows 
No printer lives from error free ; 

And in those neat and serried rows 
Are letters that ought not to be. 

He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh, 
Deleting here, and adding there, 

Till not the keenest reader's eye 
But must confess the whole is fair. 

And shall the pages of our lives- 
Letter by letter daily set — 

Be subject, when the end arrives, 
To no revising process yet ? 

Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears. 
Sometimes our hands with passion shake, 

Sometimes a tempting Devil leers 
At all the errors that we make. 

Forbid, O God ! that work so vain 
Shall stand in an eternal scroll— 

With faults of sin, and joy, and pain- 
As long as future ages roll ! 



THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE 

OUR LADYE OF THE SNOW 

1 
F, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead 
Where, emblem of our holy creed, 
Canadian crosses glow — 
There you may hear what here you read, 
And seek in witness of the deed 
Our Ladye of the Snow ! * 
* The church of Notre Dame des Neiges, (now) behind Mount 
Royal. 



I 



2 20 A Treasury of 

In the old times when France held sway 
From the Balize to Hudson's Bay, 

O'er all the forest free, 
A noble Breton cavalier 
Had made his home for many a year 

Beside the Rivers three. 

To tempest and to trouble proof 
Rose in the wild his glittering roof. 

To every traveller dear ; 
The Breton song, the Breton dance. 
The very atmosphere of France, 

Diffused a generous cheer. 

Strange sight that on those fields of snow 
The genial vine of Gaul should grow 

Despite the frigid sky ! 
Strange power of Man's all-conquering will, 
That here the hearty Frank can still 

A Frenchman live and die ! 



The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey, 
But his good heart held holiday, 

As when in youthful pride 
He bared his shining blade before 
De Tracey's regiment on the shore 

Which France has glorified. 

Gay in the field, glad in the hall, 
The first at danger's frontier call, — 

The humblest devotee 
Of God and of St Catharine dear 
Was the stout Breton cavalier 

Beside the Rivers three. 

When bleak December's chilly blast 
Fettered the flowing waters fast. 

And swept the frozen plain — 



Canadian Verse 221 

When with a frightened cry, half heard, 
Far southward fled the arctic bird, 
Proclaiming winter's reign — 

His custom was, come foul, come fair, 
For Christmas duties to repair. 

Unto the Ville Marie, 
The city of the mount, which north 
Of the great River looketh forth 

Across its sylvan sea. 

Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep. 
The hillocks looked like frozen sheep, 

Like giants grey the hills — 
The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread, 
With its white burden over-head, 

And marble hard the rills. 

A thick dull light, where ray was none 
Of moon or star, or cheerful sun, 

Obscurely showed the way — 
While merrily upon the blast 
The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast, 

Timed the glad roundelay. 

Swift eve came on, and faster fell 

The winnowed storm on ridge and dell. 

Effacing shape and sign — 
Until the scene grew blank at last, 
As when some seaman from the mast 

Looks o'er the shoreless brine. 

Nor marvel aught to find ere long 
In such a scene the death of song 

Upon the bravest lips — 
The empty only could be loud 
When Nature fronts us in her shroud 

Beneath the sky's eclipse. 



222 A Treasury of 

Nor marvel more to find the steed, 
Though famed for spirit and for speed, 

Drag on a painful pace — 
With drooping crest and faltering foot, 
And painful whine, the weary brute 

Seems conscious of disgrace ; 

Until he paused with mortal fear. 
Then plaintive sank upon the mere 

Stiff as a steed of stone — 
In vain the master winds his horn, 
None save the howling wolves forlorn 

Attend the dying roan. 



Ill 

Sad was the heart and sore the plight 
Of the benumbed, bewildered knight 

Now scrambling through the storm. 
At every step he sank apace — 
The death dew freezing on his face — 

In vain each loud alarm ! 

The torpid echoes of the Rock 
Answered with one unearthly mock 

Of danger round about ! 
Then, muffled in their snowy robes, 
Retiring sought their bleak abodes, 

And gave no second shout. 

Down on his knees himself he cast, 
Deeming that hour to be his last, 
Yet mindful of his faith — 
He prayed St Catharine and St John, 
And our dear Ladye called upon 
For grace of happy death. 

When lo ! a light beneath the trees, 
Which clank their brilliants in the breeze, 
And lo ! a phantom fair 



Canadian Verse 223 

As God's in heaven ! by that blest light 
Our Ladye's self rose to his sight, 
In robes that spirits wear ! 

Oh ! lovelier, lovelier far than pen, 
Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken 

Can picture, was her face — 
Gone was the sorrow of the sword, 
And the last passion of our Lord 

Had left no living trace ! 

As when the moon across the moor 
Points the lost peasant to his door. 

And glistens on his pane — 
Or when along her trail of light 
Belated boatmen steer at night, 

A harbor to regain — 

So the warm radiance from her hands 
Unbind for him Death's icy bands. 

And nerve the sinking heart — 
Her presence makes a perfect path. 
Ah ! he who such a helper hath 

May anywhere depart. 

All trembling, as she onward smiled, 
Followed that Knight our mother mild. 

Vowing a grateful vow — 
Until, far down the mountain gorge. 
She led him to the antique forge 

Where her own shrine stands now. 

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead 
Where, emblem of our holy creed, 

Canadian crosses glow — 
There you may hear what here you read. 
And seek, in witness of the deed, 

Our Ladye of the Snow 1 



224 A Treasury of 

WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE 
MOONLIGHT 

SO tremulous the flame of thinking burns 
Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep 
My restless couch ; I watch the still moon sweep 
Through starry space, like some white soul that 
spurns 
Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns ; 

In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep — 
Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep 
When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns ! 



And as the moonlight quieteth unrest. 

Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure 
light. 

So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest, 
Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white ; 

And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams, 

I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams. 



GABRIELLE 

'HP IS the sound of a silver-toned bell : 

J- Gabrielle, — 

And a gladness the chime doth foretell, 

Gabrielle ; 
As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind. 
And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find. 
So thy name seems to come on the wind, 

Gabrielle I 
I find in its musical swell, 

Gabrielle, 
A charm evil passions to quell, 

Gabrielle ; 



Canadian Verse 225 

When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed 
Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed, 
And they flit back again to the void, 

Gabrielle ! 
Thy name holds my heart by a spell, 

Gabrielle ! 
In my life thy sweet music shall dwell, 

Gabrielle ! 
As one with a vision celestial in sight, 
The vision of love hath redoubled my might. 
And my eyes mirror heavenly light, 

Gabrielle I 



THE MOTHER'S SONG 

Come, O Sleep, from Chids isle. 

Take my little one awhile — Greek Folk-Song. 

COME hither, Sleep, from Ohio's isle ! 
My wakeful babe canst thou beguile ? 
Let rose of dawn be on the cheek, 
On sweet lips parted as to speak, 
But bring a twilight o'er these eyes 
As bright and blue as summer skies. 
Then swing the cradle to and fro 
Till all the winged shadows go ; 
Like drowsy flower my baby sway 
Until my daughter hails the day. 

Come hither. Sleep, from Ohio's isle ! 
Take thou my little one awhile. 
And twine soft fabric of the night 
O'er merry eyes that glance too bright; 
Make silent thou the laughter sound. 
But leave the smile, and dimple round, 
And rock my baby on thy breast 
Like wee bird swaying in the nest ; 
At morning bring her fresh as day. 
Then on a sunbeam fly away. 
p 



226 A Treasury of 



LULLABY SONG 

WHERE does my sweetheart Baby go 
While the cradle is swinging her to and fro, — 
While Mother is singing a lullaby 
In a voice like none other, so sweet and low ? 

Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear I 
Yield thee to slumber, Mother is near ; 

Far on Sleefs ocean fear not to go, 
God is arotmd thee, loving thee so / 

Does she fly away to the home of Night, 
When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright ? 

Does she seek the place where the dreams are born, 
Clad in her dreaming-dress of white? 

Her cradle sways like a fairy boat 
On the gentle Slumber river afloat. 

That bears on its bosom a baby fleet, 
As the sunbeam many a shining mote. 

So swiftly the babies are sweeping along 
As if a breeze in the sail blew strong. 

Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind 
But the crooning of many a mother-song. 

Down Slumber river their course they keep, 
Until they come to the sea of Sleep ; 

And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things, 
For they are the dreams that arise from the deep. 



Canadian Verse 227 

ALEXANDER M^LACHLAN 

INDIAN SUMMER 

TAOWN from the blue the sun has driven, 
-L>' And stands between the earth and heaven, 

In robes of smouldering flame : 
A smoking cloud before him hung, 
A mystic veil, for which no tongue 

Of earth can find a name ; 
And o'er him bends the vault of blue, 
With shadowy faces looking through 

The azure deep profound ; 
The stillness of eternity, — 
A glory and a mystery. 

Encompass him around. 
The air is thick with golden haze. 
The woods are in a dreamy maze, 

The air enchanted seems ; 
Have we not left the realms of care. 
And entered in the regions fair 

We see in blissful dreams ? 



O, what a sacred stillness broods 
Above the awful solitudes ! 

Peace hangs with dove-hke mien ; 
She's on the earth, she's in the air, 
O, she is brooding everywhere — 

Sole spirit of the scene ! 
And yonder youths and maidens seem 
As moving in a heavenly dream, 

Through regions rich and rare ; 
Have not their very garments caught 
A tone of spiritual thought, 

A still, a Sabbath air? 
Yon cabins by the forest side 
Are all transformed and glorified ! 



2 28 A Treasury of 

O, surely grief nor care, 
Nor poverty with strife and din, 
Nor anything Hke vulgar sin, 

Can ever enter there ! 



The ox, let loose to roam at will, 
Is lying by the water still ; 

And on yon spot of green 
The very herd forget to graze, 
And look in wonder and amaze 

Upon the mystic scene. 
And yonder Lake Ontario lies, 
As if that wonder and surprise 

Had hushed her heaving breast — 
And lies there with her awful eye 
Fixed on the quiet of the sky 

Like passion soothed to rest ; 
Yon very maple feels the hush — 
That trance of wonder, that doth rush 

Through nature everywhere — 
And meek and saint-like there she stands 
With upturned eye and folded hands, 

As if in silent prayer. 

O Indian Summer, there's in thee 
A stillness, a serenity — 

A spirit pure and holy, 
Which makes October's gorgeous train 
Seem but a pageant light and vain, 

Untouched by melancholy ! 
But who can paint the deep serene — 
The holy stillness of thy mien — 

The calm that's in thy face. 
Which make us feel, despite of strife. 
And all the turmoil of our life — 

Earth is a holy place? 
Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee, 
Here, in thy forest sanctuary 



Canadian Verse 229 

We'll learn thy simple lore ; 
And neither poverty nor pain, 
The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain, 

Shall ever vex us more. 



BOBOLINK 

MERRY mad-cap on the tree, 
Who so happy are as thee ! 
Is there aught so full of fun, 
Half so happy 'neath the sun, 
With thy merry whiskodink — 
Bobolink ! Bobolink ! 



With thy mates, such merry meetings. 
Such queer jokes and funny greetings, 
O, such running and such chasing, 
O, such banter and grimacing, 
Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink — 
Bobolink ! Bobolink ! 

How you tumble 'mong the hay, 
Romping all the summer's day ; 
Now upon the wing all over 
In and out among the clover — 
Far too happy e'er to think — 
Bobolink ! Bobolink ! 

Now thou'rt on the apple tree, 
Crying, " Listen unto me ! " 
Now upon the mossy banks, 
Where thou cuttest up such pranks — 
One would swear thou wert in drink — 
Bobolink! Bobolink! 

Nothing canst thou know of sorrow, 
As to-day shall be to-morrow ; 



230 A Treasury of 

Never dost thou dream of sadness- 
All thy life a merry madness, 
Never may thy spirits sink — 
Bobolink ! Bobolink ! 



THE MAN WHO ROSE FROM NOTHING 

AROUND the world the fame is blown 
Of fighting heroes, dead and gone ; 
But we've a hero of our own — 
The man who rose from nothing. 

He's a magician great and grand ; 
The forests fled at his command ; 
And here he said, " Let cities stand ! " — 
The man who rose from nothing. 



And in our legislative hall 
He towering stands alone, like Saul, 
" A head and shoulders over all," — 
The man who rose from nothing. 

His efforts he will ne'er relax. 
His faith in figures and in facts, 
And always calls an axe an axe, — 
The man who rose from nothing. 

The gentleman in word and deed ; 
And short and simple in his creed ; 
" Fear God and help the soul in need ! 
The man who rose from nothing. 

In other lands he's hardly known, 
For he's a product of our own ; 
Could grace a shanty or a throne, — 
The man who rose from nothing. 



Canadian Verse 231 

Here's to the land of lakes and pines, 
On which the sun of freedom shines, 
Because we meet on all our lines 
The man who rose from nothing. 



JOHN MCPHERSON 
THE MAYFLOWER 

SWEET child of an April shower, 
First gift of spring to Flora's bower, 
Acadia's own peculiar flower, 

I hail thee here ! 
Thou com'st, like hope in sorrow's hour. 
To whisper cheer. 

I love to stray with careless feet, 

Thy balm on morning breeze to meet — 

Thy earliest opening bloom to greet — 

To take thy stem, 
And bear thee to my lady sweet. 

Thou lovely gem. 

What though green mosses o'er thee steal. 
And half thy lovely form conceal — 
Though but thy fragrant breath reveal 

Thy place of birth — 
Gladly I own thy mute appeal, 

Of modest worth ! 

Thy charms so pure a spell impart, 
Thy softening smiles so touch my heart. 
That silent tears of rapture start. 

Sweet flower of May ! 
E'en while I sing, devoid of art, 

This simple lay. 



^32 A Treasury of 



IN THE WOODS 

I COME, ye lovely wild-wood groves, 
Where placid contemplation roves. 
And breathes untroubled air ; 
I come to woo your genial sweets, 
To wander in your green retreats, 
And lose the sense of care. 



Unformed to brook the vulgar strife 
And heartlessness of worldly life, 

I court your silent gloom — 
Where Thought may nurse, without annoy, 
The soothing sense of native joy — 

The soul's inherent bloom. 



Receive me to your fostering arms — 
Surround me with your varied charms 

Of birds and streams and flowers ; 
And bless me with the sweet repose 
That crowns the simple thoughts of those 

Who love your leafy bowers. 

Here in the ancient forest maze. 
Remote from Mammon's specious ways. 

And wandering at my will, 
Herbs, flowers, and trees shall be my friends. 
And birds and streamlets make amends 

For much of earthly ill. 

Yet give me here a kindred tie — 
Affection's sympathetic eye. 

And kind consoling tone ; 
For though the multitude are cold, 
And anxious most for sordid gold, 

I would not live alone. 



Canadian Verse 233 

The heart — the heart is human still, 
And yearns for trusting love to fill 

Its frequent, aching void ; 
Unless partaken with our kind, 
The sweetest joys of sense and mind 

Are not enough enjoyed. 

Then will I seek repose from strife, 
The tender ministries of life, 

And peace, the timid dove. 
In one still calm, one dear retreat. 
The circle of my cottage sweet — 

The home of wedded love. 



CHARLES MAIR 

UNTAMED 

THERE was a time on this fair continent 
When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. 
The prosperous forests unmolested stood, 
For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived 
Long ages, and then died among its kind. 
The hoary pines — those ancients of the earth. 
Brimful of legends of the early world — 
Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. 
And all things else illumined by the sun. 
Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest. 
The passionate or calm pageants of the skies 
No artist drew ; but in the auburn west 
Innumerable faces of fair cloud 
Vanished in silent darkness with the day. 
The prairie realm — vast ocean's paraphrase — 
Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers 
Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, 
No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. 
And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt : 



2 34 A Treasury of 

The rivers and their tributary streams, 

Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up 

Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea, 

And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. 

And all the wild life of this western world 

Knew not the fear of man ; yet in those woods . . . 

There lived a soul more wild than barbarous ; 

A tameless soul — the sunburnt savage free — 

Free, and untainted by the greed of gain : 

Great Nature's man content with Nature's food. 

THE VOICE OF THE PINES 

WE fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain. 
For our stems are stout and long ; 
Or the growling winds, though they blow amain, 

For our roots are great and strong ; 

Our voice is eternal, our song subHme, 

And its theme is the days of yore — 

Back thousands of years of misty time. 

When we first grew old and hoar ! 

Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid, 

And our limbs were thick and green 
Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid, 

Or the Sphinx's form was seen. 
Whole forests have risen within our ken. 

Which withered upon the plain ; 
And cities, and race after race of men, 

Have risen and sunk again. 

We commune with the stars thro' the paly night. 

For we love to talk with them ; 
The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light 

Of the moon our diadem. 
Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir 

When the night air whispers low ; 
Like the voices of ocean our voices are. 

When the hurtling tempests blow. 



Canadian Verse 235 

We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn 

Prints her sandals on the mere ; 
We part with the sun when the stars are borne 

By the silvery waters clear. 
And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows, 

With their hearts and cheeks aglow, 
We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs, 

Of a thousand years ago ! 

We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength 

Craveth naught from lesser powers ; 
'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground. 

But the sturdy rock is ours ! 
We tower aloft where the hunters lag 

By the weary mountain side, 
By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag, 

And the chasms yawning wide. 

When the great clouds march in a mountain heap. 

By the light of the dwindled sun, 
We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep. 

And accost them one by one. 
Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth, 

And the storm-fires flash again ; 
But baffled and weary they sink to earth, 

And the monarch-stems remain. 

The passage of years doth not move us much. 

And Time himself grows old 
Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch 

In our "limbs of giant mould." 
And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed, 

With our laughter grim we mock ; 
For the burden of age doth lightly rest 

On the ancient forest folk. 

Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf, 

And steals the floweret's sheen. 
Can injure us not, or work us grief, 

Or make our tops less green. 



236 A Treasury of 

And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train 

By meadow, and hill, and lea, 
Brings no new life to our old domain, 

Unfading, stern, and free. 

Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast. 

While men build, work, and save, 
We mock — for their years glide away to the past, 

And we grimly look on their grave. 
Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, 

For its theme is the days of yore — 
Back thousands of years of misty time, 

When we first grew old and hoar. 

THE HUMMING BIRD 

IT comes ! This strange bird from a distant clime 
Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing. 
From the sweet south, all sick of revelling. 
It wanders hitherward to rest a time, 
And taste the hardy flora of the west. 

And now, O joy ! the urchins hear the mirth 
Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth 
In watchful eagerness, contented, blest. 

Bird of eternal summers ! thou dost wake. 
Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art, 
A new born gladness in my swelling heart. 

Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take ! 

Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me 
Than some sweet fancy in old poesy. 



o 



INNOCENCE 



FT I have met her 
In openings of the woods and pleasant ways, 

Where flowers beset her. 
And hanging branches crowned her head with bays. 



Canadian Verse 237 

Oft have I seen her walk 
Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass, 

Where lay the slumbery flock, 
Swoln with much eating of the tender grass. 

Oft have I seen her stand 
By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met ; 

Or where the meadow-land 
Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet. 

Much patting of the wind 
Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose ; 

Rare beauty was entwined 
With locks and looks in movement or repose . . . 

The floriage of the spring 
And summer coronals were hers in trust, 

Till came the winter-king 
To droop their sweetness into native dust . . . 

The dingle and the glade, 
The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees 

Seemed fairer while she stayed. 
And drank of their dim meanings and old ease . . . 

And chiefly she did love 
To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear ; 

With counsel from above. 
Alleviating woe, allaying fear ... 

There was a quiet grace 
In all her actions, tokening gentleness, 

Yet firm intent to trace 
The paths of duty leading up to bliss . . . 

She thought of One who bore 
The awful burden of the world's despair — 

What could she give Him more 
Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair ? 



238 A Treasury of 

She was and is, for still 
She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth, 

And, as of old, doth fill 
Her heart with peace, still mingHng tears with mirth. 

O, could we find her out. 
And learn of her this wildering maze to tread ! 

And, eased of every doubt. 
Let deadly passions linger with the dead ! . . . 



GEORGE MARTIN 
SHELLEY 

LOVER of Man, if not of God, the Sea 
That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore 

Its music round the world from shore to shore, 
Will never cease to make lament for thee ; 
For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free, 

At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar 

Enslavements of a venerated lore, — 
At deadly feud with all the Powers that be. 

Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound, 

Child of Imagination, born for flight. 
Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned 

The foe of every form of savage might. 
Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound. 

Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height. 

TO MY CANARY BIRD 

BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes. 
Impassioned little minstrel of the cage, 
My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats, 

Unheedful of the clamor and the rage 
Of storms that menace ruin as they pass, 
Impatient for the freedom of the plain, 



Canadian Verse 239 

Crusted and polished like a sea of glass, 

Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain. 

There is no touch of winter in thy song, 

No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend ; 
All beauties of the Spring to thee belong, 

All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend 
A drowsy gladness to the summer hours. 

Again I hear swift rivulets descend 
The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school ; 

Again I see the lily on the pool, 
And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers. 

Not only through the golden hours of day, 

From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite, 
Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray 
Around the quiet chamber where I write. 
But often in the slumbrous hush of night, 
When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing. 
On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing, 
Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring. 
As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight. 

Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap. 

Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips ; 

Press hard against the pane your whitened lips, 
And at the outer portal louder rap ; 
My songster hears you not : a higher note, 

A more reverbant, more delirious strain, 
Issues exultant from his quivering throat. 
And reaches to the people on the street, 

Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again. 
Retiring slowly with unwilling feet. 

O that thou couldst to me this hour impart 

The secret of thy unremitting joy ! 
The music that dilates thy little heart 

No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy. 



240 A Treasury of 

Here, seated listless in my easy chair, 
I can but yield to phantasy and dream, 
And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam 

Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share 
Of thy divine emotion, happy bird, 
By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred, 

May slip into my verse and warble there. 



LALEET 

HOW beautiful she was, the little maiden, 
Scarce twelve years old. 
Who faded like a fading star, love laden. 
Her love untold. 



I knew not, I who far outran her days, 

How much I erred 
In making much of her endearing ways. 

How much I stirred 
The fount of her affection with my praise. 



No sunrise fairer is than was her face. 

No moonlit skies 
More lovely than the tenderness and grace 

That filled her eyes. 

Her presence harmonized all dissonance. 

And ever wore 
A charm akin to music and romance. 

And faery lore. 

Poor child ! among her hidden notes one said 

She dreamed of me. 
And fancied that she saw me lying dead. 

Drowned in the sea. 
But that no dream it was the tears she shed. 



Canadian Verse 241 

When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding, 

And o'er her broke 
The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading, 

Vaguely she spoke : 
He knew not of my weeping at his wedding ! 

Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken. 

All winds repeat ; 
I shudder at the tale which they betoken. 

My lost Laleet ! 

I hear them in the surging of the billow, 

Through storm and gloom ; 
They pierce me from the rustle of the willow 

That shades her tomb 
And drops a denser shadow on my pillow. 

Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean. 

Of mount and vale. 
Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion 

Till suns shall fail 
And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion. 



HELEN M. MERRILL 
THE BLUE FLOWER 



STn_.L, though the sun is setting. 
She lingers unheeding the hour, 
Her face held to its splendor. 
Her heart in thrall of its power. 

Her hair is golden burnished ; 

In her eye the heaven's hue ; 
Her charm of immortal beauty 

Holds me from dawn till dew. 
Q 



242 A Treasury of 

She has a soul of fire, 

Pure as a star's white flame ; 

I gaze in silence, and wonder 
The glory whence it came. 

She is the spirit elusive 

Sorrowing poets seek ; 
I stand rapt in her presence, 

And listen to hear her speak. 

All time in the forest olden, 
She tells her wondrous chain ; 

My hope of suns eternal. 
Priest of a mighty fane. 

Through the pale light glowing golden, 
She watches the day decline ; 

She sings from her ancient volume, 
I interpret Hne on line. 

Flower or star bright shining, 
A bird, or a silver sheaf ; 

In her great book I discover 
An enigma on every leaf. 

Her song is of paradises 
Where wheeling fires shine, 

To mystic dreams beguiling 
Like whispering wind in a pine. 

She would that the spirits of mortals 
Wander in amaranth meads ; 

Never a shadow trembles 

On the soul-path where she leads, 

Under the flashing stars 

And the splendor of suns in prime, 
In a land of new horizons, 

In the unknown aftertime. 



Canadian Verse 243 



AT EDGEWATER 

ONE by one they pass away, 
Days, like white ships which sail peacefully 
From the shore, yet come not back again. 
And their freight is Life, and Love, and lesser things, 
Yet as beautiful and good. And ever they set sail 
Under golden suns for sea, 

Till the summer is gone and shadows fall so gloomily, 
At Edgewater ! 

When the winds of autumn blow 

Through the brown vines swinging mournfully, 

CaUing for the sun disconsolate. 

And the rain falls, and the spirit of the deep. 

Grieving for the summer, chants its death-song of the 

sun. 
It is lonely by the sea. 

And the heart is haunted by unhappy memory. 
At Edgewater. 

Yet again a golden day 

Gilds the blue wave flowing tranquilly. 

And a sudden splendor lights the shore, 

And the heart of autumn, trembling, turneth warm, 

As though summer loitered in it dreaming of the sun. 

By-gone dreams, and dreams to be. 

Their white shadows on the soul reflect ceaselessly, 

At Edgewater. 



THE PROMISE OF SPRING 

BLUE-BLACK like the breast of the gusty sea, 
Cumulus clouds where the sun goes down, 
Stormful shadows against the gold. 
Under the arches of even blown. 



244 A Treasury of 

Nowhere a white bird beating the storm, 
Nowhere a sunray gilding the sea ; 

Bud nor leaf on the orchard bough, 
Butterfly, nor blossom, nor bee. 

Yet to-night, where the blue waves beat. 
Under the shadows, the storm-winds bring 

Omen mysterious out of the dusk. 

Out of the darkness the promise of Spring. 



SUN-GOLD 

ALL day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead 
Like miser olden hoarding underground. 
Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound 
Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed. 

Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand, 
In every field, by every fountain-side, 
She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide, 

In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land. 

Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow, 

You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses ; 
You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes 

On sunny uplands where gold violets grow. 



SUSANNA MOODIE 
THE MAPLE-TREE 

HAIL to the pride of the forest — hail 
To the maple, tall and green ! 
It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail 
While leaves on its boughs are seen. 
When the moon shines bright 
On the wintry night, 



Canadian Verse 245 

And silvers the frozen snow, 

And echo dwells 

On the jingling bells 
As the sleighs dart to and fro, 

Then it brightens the mirth 

Of the social hearth 
With its red and cheery glow. 

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades. 

It lifts its tall head on high. 
When the crimson-tinted evening fades 
From the glowing saffron sky ; 

When the sun's last beams 

Light up woods and streams, 
And brighten the gloom below ; 

And the deer springs by 

With his flashing eye, 
And the shy, swift-footed doe ; 

And the sad winds chide 

In the branches wide. 
With a tender plaint of woe. 

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk. 
With the bow in his red right-hand. 
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk 
From the glorious forest land. 

But, blithe and free, 

The maple-tree. 
Still tosses to sun and air 

Its thousand arms. 

While in countless swarms 
The wild bee revels there ; 

But soon not a trace 

Of the red-man's race 
Shall be found in the landscape fair. 

When the snows of winter are melting fast, 
And the sap begins to rise, 



246 A Treasury of 

And the biting breath of the frozen blast 
Yields to the spring's soft sighs, 

Then away to the wood, 

For the maple good 
Shall unseal its honeyed store ; 

And boys and girls, 

With their sunny curls. 
Bring their vessels brimming o'er 

With the luscious flood 

Of the brave tree's blood. 
Into caldrons deep to pour. 

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red 

Far down in the forest dark 
A ruddy glow on the trees is shed. 
That lights up their rugged bark ; 

And with merry shout 

The busy rout 
Watch the sap as it bubbles high ; 

And they talk of the cheer 

Of the coming year. 
And the jest and the song pass by ; 

And brave tales of old 

Round the fire are told. 
That kindle youth's beaming eye. 

Hurrah ! for the sturdy maple-tree ! 
Long may its green branch wave 
In native strength, sublime and free, 
Meet emblem for the brave. 

May the nation's peace 

With its growth increase, 
And its worth be widely spread ; 

For it lifts not in vain 

To the sun and rain 
Its tall, majestic head. 

May it grace our soil, 

And reward our toil. 
While the nation's day is sped ! 



Canadian Verse 247 

THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT 

THE air is still, the night is dark, 
No ripple breaks the dusky tide ; 
From isle to isle the fisher's bark. 

Like fairy meteor, seems to glide, — 
Now lost in shade, now flashing bright ; 

On sleeping wave and forest tree, 
We hail with joy the ruddy light, 
Which far into the darksome night 
Shines red and cheerily. 

With spear high poised and steady hand, 

The centre of that fiery ray, 
Behold the skilful fisher stand. 

Prepared to strike the finny prey. 
" Now, now ! " the shaft has sped below, — 

Transfixed the shining prize we see ; 
On swiftly glides the birch canoe. 
The woods send back the long halloo 

In echoes loud, and cheerily ! 

Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides 

The noisy rapids from our sight, 
Another bark ! another glides ! 

Red spirits of the murky night ! 
The bosom of the silent stream 

With mimic stars is dotted free ; 
The tall woods lighten in the beam. 

Through darkness shining cheerily. 



MARY MORGAN 
IN APPREHENSION, SO LIKE A GOD." 

TAKE the mouldering dust, 
Wake it into life, — 
Matter is but servant of the mind. 



248 A Treasury of 

Touch the silent keys : 

Genius can evoke 

Music wherein gods commune with men. 

Read the soul of man, 
And the farthest star ; 
Truth is one, and is forever true. 

Think the wildest thought, 

Hope the utmost hope — 

Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled. 

Wonder not at deed, 

Wonder more at thought. 

Wonder at the hope that feeds itself. 

Genius is divine, 

Genius is the true : 

Man becomes that which he worships, — God ! 



CHARITY 

THOU askest not to know the creed, 
The rank or name is naught to thee ; 
Where'er the human heart cries " Help ! " 
Thy kingdom is, O Charity ! 

LIFE 

MYSTERIOUS Life ! we speak as if we knew 
What meant this vortex : Ah, what doth 
mean ? 
A spirit of unrest is Life — hath been 
Alluring made with many-tinted hue. 
From darkest chasm it lifts man to a peak 
Where he may see ideal flowers blow ; 
But as he learns to love them, it will show 
Him other heights that he is forced to seek. 



Canadian Verse 249 

Enchantress, Disenchantress, — both in one ! 

Surrounding us to-day with dazzling Hght, 

To-morrow hiding every ray of sun 
Till we are sunk in the abyss of night. 

The oracles are dumb : whate'er Life be, 

Man walks by faith alone ; he cannot see. 



IRENE ELDER MORTON 

BROWNING 

HE sits at last among his peers. 
While we stand chilled with eyes grown dim 
In looking over life's grey fields, 
And feel the heart-light folded in. 

O great soul ! entered in to know 

The fulness of the Central Life ! 
O giant leader of the race, 

Who never with the world made strife, 

But led it surely, grandly on. 

Scaling clear heights with leap and bound, — 
Then, beckoning with a strong man's hand, 

He kept his way to higher ground ! 

No maudlin cry he gave the world, — 
" Behold my grief, pity my pain ; " 

Strong as the breath of Alpine hills. 
Sweet as the sound of summer rain. 

The songs he gave us. Evermore 

The deathless might of English speech 

Shall sound their notes from shore to shore, 
And to the coming nations teach 



250 A Treasury of 

That it is nobler to endure, 

And smother back the cry of pain — 

Shall call us onward to the heights, 
To press ahead and bear the strain. 

He wore no caste-bound fetters here ; 

A man of men he proved his soul j 
The mighty pulse within his words 

Beat full and free above control. 

The illumined fringes of his thoughts 
Have set the world's face after him. 

As one would follow clear flute notes 
Heard in cool aisles of forests dim. 

With loving face of child and friend 
To look on as the last of earth, 

God wrapt him in a robe of light, 
And gave him strong immortal birth. 

He looks again in the clear eyes 
Of her, the love-dream of his youth. 

The moonht side of his great heart, 
To whom he gave his manhood's truth. 

Perfect conditions of new life 
Are vibrant to his being there, — 

Gone in to feel the wider thrill, 
Gone in to breathe the purer air. 



COMPLETENESS 

LIFE gives us better than it takes away, — 
In brighter hope, and broader, fuller day. 

There is no past, but all things move and blend 
In sure fulfilment of a promised end. 



Canadian Verse 251 

We leave the misty capes and vales we trod, 
For the glad sunshine on the Hills of God. 

To slow grand measure up the aisle of years 

Move truths enfranchised from long bonds and tears. 

Hands that groped darkly for the truth of things 
Hold the clear signet of the King of Kings. 

Broad waves that tossed in fierce white passion-heat 
Fall into psalm and kiss the resting feet. 



MY GARDEN WALL 
I 

IT comforts me through all my days 
To know that on this strange old earth, 
On which we two found human birth, 
I have a friend who cares for me. 

Not a high God, serene and just. 
Who from His calm sure place of bhss 
Looks down from His world into this, 
And burns me that I grow more white. 

But just a man, so strong and dear — 
How dear the stars know in the sky. 
And the sweet birds as home they fly. 
When evening comes, to the warm nest ! 

He can do things that I can not : 
He builds a wall around my heart ; 
Some day we will not dwell apart — 
A man is stronger than a girl. 



252 A Treasury of 



Within the wall that he has made 
I plant the seeds of life's queen flowers ; 
I watch them grow through pleasant hours, - 
Be sure they neither droop nor fade. 

Perhaps some passers-by may think : 
" It only is a common wall, 
Solid and square, not very tall " — 
But could they look over the brink, 

And see the rose and mignonette, 
Spicy carnations red and white, 
That pulse their perfume in the light, 
With tall pale lilies firmly set ! 



Now while the sweet wild autumn rain 
Is falling on the world outside. 
How safely does my heart abide 
In the dear shelter of my wall ! 

IN JUNE 

SOME glad thim 
Always in June, 
Some new joy gladly set 
To a sweet tune. 

Is it that earth so thrills 
With bud and bloom, 

That the sad heart of life 
Lets go its gloom ? 

Some dear long absent face 
Answers some prayers, 

Or may be just a token 
That some one cares. 



Canadian Verse 253 

Some glad thing hidden long 

In some old room, 
Says, " Let us go to her, 

For it is June. 

" Why cheat her any more, 

For we are hers^ 
Unlock the dusty door. 

My being stirs 

" With longing to behold 

A human face, 
And with a touch of joy 

Add some new grace." 

Far back in earth's grey dawn, 

Before God's words 
Had crystalized in suns. 

Or stars had heard 

That clear creative call, 

" Let there be light 
On all My works below. 

For day and night " — 

When first earth's wrinkled face 

Saw the white moon 
Gleam on unfinished work. 

There was no June, — 

But as the thoughts of God 

Shewed perfect spheres. 
We think He called up June 

To gem the years ! 

When we are inward drawn 

To God's dear heart, 
And the white silence falls 

As we depart, 



2 54 A Treasury of 

And the new air seems filled 
With some rare tune, 

How sweet our last earth-look 
If it were June ! 



SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS 

THE rivers that sweep to the sea 
Bear to it the heart of the land — 
The eyes of the gods in the stars 

The thoughts of my heart understand. 

And the joy in the heart of the rose, 
The song in the heart of the rain, 

The glory of gladness that flows 

O'er the billows of tall ripened grain, 

The strength in the heart of the hills, 
The unmeasured lament of the sea. 

The low happy laugh of the rills, — 

All answer to something in me, 

To something in me ! 



SONG 

WHERE the soft shadows fall, 
Where the wind's voices call, 
Softly and low, — 



Mother earth, cover me 

Daisies, grow over me ! 

Bury me low. 



Far from the sound of strife. 
From the rude voice of Hfe, 
Bury me deep ! 



Canadian Verse 255 

Where the soft summer rain 
Soothes all my weary pain, 
There let me sleep. 

Wild are earth's hopes and vain, 
Even love touches pain — 
Bury me low I 

Mother earth, cover me ! 
Daisies, grow over me ! 
Bury me low ! 



CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY 

POPPCEA 

{At the Theatre) 

T^ARK tresses made rich with all treasures, 
-L^ Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea- 
She is splendid as Rome that was Cesar's, 
And cruel as Rome that was free ! 

Could I paint her but once as I found her ! 

From her porphyry couch let her lean. 
With the reek of the circus around her — 

Who is centre and soul of the scene : 

Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle 

When he swoops to his prey from on high ; 

Bold arms by the red gold made regal — 
White breast never vexed with a sigh : 

And haughty her mien as of any 

Her sires whom the foemen knew well, 

As they rode through the grey mist at Canned, 
Ere consul with consular fell. 



256 A Treasury of 

Unabashed in her beauty of figure — 
Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled 

To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor 
Of the race that has conquered the world. 

And fierce with the blood of the heroes — 
In their sins and their virtues sublime — 

Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's, 
And as keen for a kiss as a crime ! 

But the game that amuses her leisure 
Loses zest as the weaker gives way ; 

And the victor looks up for her pleasure — 
Shall he spare with sword-point or slay ? 

Half-grieving she gathers her tresses. 

Now the hour for the games has gone by, 

And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses. 
Point prone, as she signs, " Let him die ! " 



GEORGE MURRAY 

THE THISTLE 

A Legendary Ballad 

"~PWAS midnight ! Darkness, like the gloom of 

J- some funereal pall. 
Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines, — a fortress grim 

and tall. 
The moon and stars were veiled in clouds, and from 

the Castle's height 
No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of 

the night ; 
Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the 

sound 
Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying 

round. 



Canadian Verse 257 

The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause 

for fear ; 
The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch 

to cheer; 
Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were 

stretched in sound repose, 
While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round 

in idle rows ; 
And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly 

dreaming lay. 
Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for 

the fray. 

But in that hour, — when Nature's self serenely seemed 

to sleep, — 
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the 

keep, 
A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the 

wood 
That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for 

many a rood, — 
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with 

murderous stains — 
They are the " Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted 

Danes ! 



Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's 

strand ; 
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe 

and brand; 
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path 

with carnage strewn. 
For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never 

known. 
And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort 

of Slaines — 
They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in 

Scottish veins ! 

R 



258 A Treasury of 

Onward they creep with noiseless tread — their 

treacherous feet are bare, 
Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering 

prey should scare. 
"Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon 

rampart soon be scaled, 
And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be 

regaled. 
Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard 

wave ; 
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep 

within the grave ! " 

Silent as shadows, on they glide ; the gloomy fosse is 

nigh— 
" Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord ! its shelving depths 

are dry. 
Speed, warriors, speed ! " — but, hark ! a shriek of 

agonizing pain 
Bursts from a hundred Danish throats — again it rings, 

again ! 
Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained 

by summer's heat. 
And bristhng crops of thistles pierced the raiders' 

naked feet ! 

That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's 

kindling soul, 
And, shouting " Arms ! to arms ! " he sped the Castle 

bell to toll. 
But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of 

night. 
Each clansman started from his couch and armed 

him for the fight ; 
The drawbridge falls, — and, side by side, the banded 

heroes fly 
To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them 

or die ! 



Canadian Verse 259 

As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben 

Lomond's crest 
Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of 

their nest ; 
As lions bound upon their prey, or as the burning 

tide 
Sweeps onward with resistless might from some 

volcano's side — 
So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of 

Slaines, 
Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving 

Danes. 



The lurid glare of torches served to light them to 

their foes : 
They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, 

relentless blows ; 
Claymore and battle-axe and spear were steeped in 

slaughter's flood. 
While every thistle in the moat was splashed with 

crimson blood ; 
And when the light of morning broke, the legions of 

the Danes 
Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort 

of Slaines ! 

Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the 

grave of Time 
Since those grim Vikings of the North by death 

atoned their crime. 
In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy 

grace 
Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless 

race; 
And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the 

sea. 
Hath Scotland's honor tarnished been — God grant it 

ne'er may be ! 



26o A Treasury of 



O 



M. H. NICKERSON 

A RECOLLECTION 

'ER the white waste of drifted sands unstable 



We climbed the sedgy dune, 
Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable 
Basked at the feet of June. 

Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered 

Around in glancing flocks, 
And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered 

The foam-bells on the rocks. 

Deep peace was in the air and on the billows, 

That in smooth slumber lay. 
Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows 

As infants wake to play. 

The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing, 

But such the fisher hails 
With joy when, after weary hours of rowing, 

It swells his spritted sails. 

The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles, 

Far outward we could trace ; 
The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the 
wrinkles 

From out old Ocean's face. 

No envious shadow on the flood descended ; 

Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep 
In silent grandeur with the horizon blended. 

Deep calling unto deep. 

And every shadow, from my life retreating. 

Left free the placid mind ; 
The finite with the infinite was meeting 

Undimmed and unconfined. 



Canadian Verse 261 

How many times my eager gaze had rested 

Upon that sea and shore ; 
But never, never had they been invested 

With such a charm before. 

They wear it still in calm ideal perfection, 
Though years since then have flown ; 

That summer day's unclouded recollection 
Shall ever be my own. 



CORNELIUS O'BRIEN 

ST CECILIA 

A SHELL lies silent on a lonely shore ; 
High rocks and barren stand with frowning brow ; 
Hither no freighted ships e'er turn their prow 
Their treasures on the fated sand to pour ; 

Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar ; 
But, pure as victim for a nation's vow, 
A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now 
Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more. 

Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts 
For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre. 
Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell, 

Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts. 
Attuned its music to the heavenly choir, 
And gave a Christian voice to Clio's shell. 



THOMAS O'HAGAN 

RIPENED FRUIT 

I KNOW not what my heart has lost, 
I cannot strike the chords of old ; 
The breath that charmed my morning life 
Hath chilled each leaf within the wold. 



262 A Treasury of 

I'he swallows twitter in the sky, 

But bare the nest beneath the eaves ; 

The fledglings of my care are gone, 
And left me but the rustling leaves. 

And yet, I know my life hath strength, 
And firmer hope and sweeter prayer. 

For leaves that murmur on the ground 
Have now for me a double care. 

I see in them the hope of spring. 
That erst did plan the autumn day ; 

I see in them each gift of man 

Grow strong in years, then turn to clay. 

Not all is lost — the fruit remains 

That ripened through the summer's ray ; 

The nurslings of the nest are gone, 
Yet hear we still their warbling lay. 

The glory of the summer sky 

May change to tints of autumn hue ; 

But faith that sheds its amber light 
Will lend our heaven a tender blue. 

O altar of eternal youth ! 

O faith that beckons from afar ! 
Give to our lives a blossomed fruit — 

Give to our morns an evening star ! 



THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS 

O SWEET unto my heart is the song my mother 
sings 
As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings ! 
Every note is charged with memory — every memory 

bright with rays 
Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of child- 
hood's days. 



Canadian Verse 263 

The orchard ])looms anew, and each blossom scents 
the way, 

And I feel again the breath of eve among the new- 
mown hay ; 

While through the halls of memory in happy notes 
there rings 

All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother 
sings. 



I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of 

Liszt, 
As they dripped and drooped about my heart and 

filled my eyes with mist ; 
I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of 

Verdi's power, 
As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the don- 
jon tower ; 
And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime 
That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse 

of time ; 
But all the music of the past, and the wealth that 

memory brings. 
Seem as nothing when I hsten to the song my mother 

sings. 

It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and 

care. 
It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes 

of prayer ; 
It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that 

are to be. 
And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of 

the sea ; 
It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from 

above. 
And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's 

sacred love. 



264 A Treasury of 

O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that 

it brings, 
As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother 

sings ! 



GILBERT PARKER 

I LOVED MY ART 

I LOVED my Art. I loved it when the tide 
Was sweeping back my hopes upon the sand ; 
When I had missed the hollow of God's hand 
Held over me, and there was none to guide. 

I set my face towards it, raising high 
My arm in token that I would be true 
To all great motives, though I sorely knew 
That there was one star wanting in my sky. 

Touching the chords of many harmonies, 
I needed one to make them all complete. 
I heard it sound like thunder-gathered seas. 

What time my soul knelt at my lady's feet. 
And there transfigured in her light I grew 
In stature to the work that poets do. 

IT IS ENOUGH 

IT is enough that in this burdened time 
The soul sees all its purposes aright. 
The rest — what does it matter ? Soon the night 
Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime. 

What does it matter, if but in the way 

One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true ; 

One understands the work we try to do. 

And strives through Love to teach us what to say ? 

Between me and the chilly outer air 

Which blows in from the world, there standeth one 
Who draws Love's curtains closely everywhere, 



Canadian Verse 265 

As God folds down the banners of the sun. 
Warm is my place about me, and above, 
Where was the raven, I behold the dove. 



THEIR WAVING HANDS 

SINCE I rose out of child-oblivion 
I have walked in a world of many dreams, 
And noble souls beside the shining streams 
Of fancy have with beckonings led me on. 

Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see. 
Only their waving hands and noble forms. 
Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered 

storms, 
But always they came back again to me. 

Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair 
Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view 
The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair 

Immortal, and for whom God's manna grew : 
Dante, Anacreon, Euripides, 
And all who set rich wine upon the lees. 



AMY PARKINSON 

THE MESSENGER HOURS 



I THOUGHT as I watched in the dawning dim 
The hours of the coming day. 
That each shadow form was surely robed 

In the selfsame hue of gray ; 
And that sad was each half-averted face, 
Unlit by a cheering ray. 



266 A Treasury of 

But as one by one they drew near to me, 

And I saw them true and clear, 
I found that the hours were all messengers. 

Sent forth by a Friend most dear. 
To bring me whatever I needed most — 

Of chastening or of cheer. 

And though some of them, truly, were grave and 
sad, 

And moved with reluctant feet, 
There were others came gladly, with smiling eyes, 

And footsteps by joy made fleet ; 
But whatever with gladness or sorrow fraught, 

The message each bore was sweet. 

For even the saddest, and weighted most 

With trial and pain for me. 
Yet breathed in my ear, ere it passed from sight, 

" This cross I have brought to thee 
Comes straight from the Friend Who, of all thy friends, 

Doth love thee most tenderly ; 

" He would rather have sent thee a joyous hour. 

And fraught with some happy thing, 
But He saw that naught else could so meet thy need 

As this strange, sad gift I bring ; 
And He loved thee too well to withhold the gift. 

Though it causes thee suffering." 



So, now, as I watch in the dawning dim 
The hours of each coming day, 

I remember that golden threads of love 
Run all through their garments gray ; 

And I know that each face as it turns to me 
Will be lit with a friendly ray. 



Canadian Verse 267 

And whether they most be sombre or glad, 

No hour of all the band 
But will bring me a greeting from Him I love, 

And reach out a helping hand 
To hasten my steps, as 1 traverse the road 

That leads to the better land. 



For the l^ord of that land is the Friend I love, 

And I know He keeps for me 
A home of delight in His kingdom fair. 

That I greatly long to see ; 
And the hours that shall speed me on my way 

I must welcome gratefully. 



Ill 

And soon I shall trace through the dawning dim, 
'Mid the hours of some coming day, 

A figure unlike to its sister forms, 
With garments more gold than gray ; 

And the face of that one, when it meets my gaze, 
Will send forth a wondrous ray. 

So I watch for that latest and brightest hour 

Which my Lord will send to me ; 
I know that its voice will be low and sweet, 

And this shall its message be : 
" Come quickly, and enter thy Home of joy. 

For the King is calling thee." 



I shall go to Him soon ! I have waited long 

To behold His beauty rare ; 
But I surely shall see Him and hear His voice, 

And a part in His glory share, 
When I answer the summons, solemn yet glad. 

Which the last sweet hour shall bear. 



268 A Treasury of 



FRANK L. POLLOCK 

AD BELLONAM 

MOTHER of Swords ! while the river runs, 
Or the steamer seeks the sea ; 
While the North wind blows from the chill of snows, 

And the South from the scented Key, 
So long, so long will live the song 

That thy lilting bugles sing, 
As the warship rides down the deep sea tides. 
Where the green foams white on her armored sides. 
And the wind'ard gun-shields ring. 

There be they who sing that the song will cease, 

The song that thy sons began ; 
That the good old World will loll in peace, 

In the bond of the Peace of Man. 
They sing, — and clear 'twixt the notes we hear 

The clink of the warrior's trade, 
And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall. 
And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall. 

Where the rifled guns are made. 

The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea. 

And the Lies of Men the land ; 
And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee 

The strength of the heavy hand ; 
But though tongues may quicken and strength may 
sicken. 

And hands grow soft and small. 
Year upon year the day draws near 
Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear. 

That shall make amends for all. 

When the Armageddon sunrise breaks 

On the iron-clads' smoking line. 
When the last dawn lights on that last of fights 

Where the strength of man shall shine, 



Canadian Verse 269 

One great grim day of the world at play, 

With bugle and tuck of drum, 
While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet. 
Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat, 

Then — let the Millennium come ! 



THE TRAIL OF GOLD 

UNDER the ward of the Polar Star, 
Where the great auroras snap and blaze, 
There are crashing blows on the icy bar 

That is set at the end of the open ways. 
There are axes ringing across the crest, 

The sluices shackle the streams that rolled, 
As the gamesters gather from East and West, — 
The men that follow the Trail of Gold. 

A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face. 

Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide ; 
The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace. 

The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide. 
Blood and bones on the snow and sod. 

From the canons black to the barrens gray, 
Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod, 

That those who follow may find the way. 

There are strange ships west of the lonely isles 

Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze ; 
There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles, 

There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas. 
There are corpses swept from the sinking hull. 

As the steamer dips to the swelling gale, 
For the rising shark and the wheeling gull 

That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail. 

The storm sweeps out from its Polar den, 

Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow ; 

The North makes mock of the sons of men. 
As the diggers lie in the drifts below. 



270 A Treasury of 

The workers lie where the last work ceased, 
The strong men scatter the lifeless wold ; 

And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast- 
The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold. 



ANDREW RAMSAY 
JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 

AFTER her bath, yet early in the day, 
She donned a ketonet or tunica ; 
With gems enclasped it, close as a caress. 
And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness 
In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made 
Of Persian satin, opaline and white, 
Like moving mists around the moon arrayed. 
Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light 
Almost immortal : on a low divan 
A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian, 
Alone reclining, on each pliant knee 
Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be. 
The sandal buckles were with gems aflame, 
And those fine bands that bound each knee the same. 
On restless anklets tinkled bells of gold, 
A symbol which of princely lineage told. 
Their music summoning a tiring maid 
Who all her glorious midnight hair arrayed : 
A purple black it was, alive and long. 
And seemed, if such could be, like a carved sons?. 
Some Hebrew paean of triumphant power 
Arrested, and remaining her rare dower. 
'Twas girt in frequent fillets of fine gold, 
Bestarred with sardon flashing manifold. 
And o'er her shoulders, exquisitely graced, 
A sedijin, encircled at the waist. 
This sedijin was sleeveless, but both arms 
Had aspen bands that blazed in jasper charms. 



Canadian Verse 271 

Her zone was also wonderful with these, 

As round her neck a circlet, carved to please 

In imitated foliage of lush hues 

Such as Ezekiel sanctified for use. 

And over these, with garnet bangles hung 

And opaline, a splendid shimla clung, 

Marvel of strangely interfusing sheen, 

And beautiful as all that might have been. 

A little scarf of white and henna dyes 

Crowned her dark head for dreadful sacrifice. 

Pensive her oriental eyes, and large. 

Looking their last on Judah's hills, the charge 

Of Israel's honor in them, and the praise 

Of many a maid desponding since those days 

When Jephtha's daughter wended forth to mourn 

Her immature virginity forlorn. 



I WILL NOT TELL 

I WILL not tell thee why the land 
With so much glory glows ; 
There is but one in all the world 
My sacred secret knows. 

O, she is fairer than the flowers 

Of rosy June or May, 
When every bird is singing near 

And every blossom gay ! 

I asked her eyes to let their beams 

Make life supremely grand : 
Their answer like a flood of hght 

Flushed all the flowery land. 

The sunbeams gleamed among the grass, 

Warm-waving in the breeze, 
A new life gladdened every bloom, 

More vivid grew the trees. 



272 A Treasury of 

I shall not tell thee why the land 
With so much glory glows ; 

There is but one in all the world 
My sacred secret knows. 



ATKINSON'S MILL 

THIS river of azure with many a weed in 
Comes far from the past as those famous of old ; 
Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden, 

And still it remembers their crimson and gold. 
As vivid this valley with forests around it, 

And low, waving evergreens shading the hill, 
But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it — 
The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill. 

This stream is the same with its tinting of azure, 

Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of 
stone ; 
Departed are those who once made it a pleasure 

To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone. 
This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer 

By feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will ; 
The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger 

And sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill. 

No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter. 

No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank, 
Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water 

To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank. 
The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish, 

The song of the gray bird in autumn is stifl. 
Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish 

Like hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill. 



Canadian Verse 273 

THEODORE HARDING RAND 

THE DRAGONFLY 



WINGED wonder of motion 
In splendor of sheen, 
Cruising the shining blue 
Waters all day, 
Smit with hunger of heart 
And seized of a quest 
Which nor beauty of flower 
Nor promise of rest 
Has charm to appease 
Or slacken or stay, — 

What is it you seek, 

Unopen, unseen ? 



Are you bhnd to the sight 

Of the heavens of blue, 

Or the wind-fretted clouds 

On their white, airy wings, 

Or the emerald grass 

That velvets the lawn, 

Or glory of meadows 

Aflame like the dawn ? 
Are you deaf to the note 
In the woodland that rings 
With the song of the whitethroat. 
As crystal as dew ? 

Ill 

Winged wonder of motion 
In splendor of sheen. 
Stay, stay a brief moment 
Thy hither and thither 



2 74 A Treasury of 

Quick-beating wings, 
Thy flashes of flight ; 
And tell me thy heart, 
Is it sad, is it light, 
Is it pulsing with fears 
Which scorch it and wither, 
Or joys that up-well 
In a girdle of green ? 

IV 

" O breather of words 
And poet of life, 
I tremble with joy, 
I flutter with fear ! 
Ages it seemeth. 
Yet only to-day 
Into this world of 
Gold sunbeams at play, 
I came from the deeps. 

O crystalline sphere ! 

O beauteous light ! 

O glory of life ! 



" On the watery floor 
Of this sibilant lake, 
I lived in the twilight dim. 
' There's a world of Day,' 
Some pled, ' a world 
Of ether and wings athrob 
Close over our head.' 
' It's a dream, it's a whim, 
A whisper of reeds,' they said, — 

And anon the waters would sob. 
And ever the going 
Went on to the dead 
Without the glint of a ray. 
And the watchers watched 
In their vanishing wake. 



Canadian Verse 



275 



VI 



" The passing 
Passed for aye, 
And the waiting 
Waited in vain ! 
Some power seemed to enfold 
The tremulous waters around, 
Yet never in heat 
Nor in shrivelling cold, 
Nor darkness deep or gray, — 
Came token of sound or touch, 
A clear unquestioned ' Yea ! ' 
And the scoffers scoffed, 
In swelling refrain, 
' Let us eat and drink, 
For to-morrow we die.' 



VII 



' But, O, in a trance of bliss. 
With gauzy wings I awoke ! 
An ecstasy bore me away 
O'er field and meadow and plain. 
I thought not of recent pain, 
But revelled, as splendors broke 
From sun and cloud and air. 
In the eye of golden Day. 



VIII 



" I'm yearning to break 
To my fellows below 
The secret of ages hoar ; 
In the quick-flashing light 
I dart up and down. 
Forth and back, everywhere. 
But the waters are sealed 
Like a pavement of glass, — 
Sealed that I may not pass. 



276 A Treasury of 

O for waters of air ! 

Or the wing of an eagle's might 

To cleave a pathway below 1 " 



IX 

And the Dragonfly in splendor 
Cruises ever o'er the lake, 
Holding in his heart a secret 
Which in vain he seeks to break. 



BEAUTY 
I 

" T T AD I two loaves of bread — ay, ay ! 

fj- One would I sell and hyacinths buy 
To feed my soul." — " Or let me die ! " 

Beauty, dew-sweet, of heavenly birth, 
Thy flower is writ of grief, not mirth, 
Thy rainbow's footed on the earth. 

Rainbows and Hyacinths ! O seers, 

Your voices call across the years : 

" The bread of Beauty's wet with tears ! " 



The living words from Beauty's mien. 

Than blade by swordsman swung more keen, 

Spirit and soul divide between : 

" Pure as the sapphire-blue from blame, 
Humble as glad, of holiest aim- 
Love's sevenfold beam a flashing flame ! " 



Canadian Verse 277 

III 

It yearns me sore, so near, so far ! 
My heart moans like the harbor-bar, 
For coming of the morning star. 

Buy Hyacinths — a goodly share ! 

Ascend, O soul, Love's iris-stair, 

The bridegroom waiteth for thee there ! 



LOVE 

THE blooming flowers, the galaxies of space, 
Lie pictured in a sheeny drop of even ; 
And globed in one round word, on lips of grace, 
Shine out the best of earth and all of heaven. 



THE HEPATICA 

HAIL, first of the spring, 
Pearly sky-tinted thing 
Touched with pencil of Him 
Who rollest the year I 
Lo, thy aureole rim 
No painter may limn — 
Vision thou hast, and no fear ! 

Fair child of the light, 

What fixes thy sight ? 
Wide-open thy roll 

From the seal of the clod, 
And thy heaven-writ scroll 
Glows, beautiful soul, 

With the shining of God ! 

Thou look'st into heaven 
As surely as Stephen, 



278 A Treasury of 

So steadfast thy will is ! 

And from earth's inglenook 
Seest Christ of the Ulies 
And daffadowndiUies, 

And catchest His look. 



And a portion is mine, 

Rapt gazer divine, 

From thy countenance given- 
Angel bliss in thy face ! 

I've looked into heaven 

As surely as Stephen, 
From out of my place ! 



"I AM" 

I AM, and therefore these, 
Existence is by me, — 
Flux of pendulous seas. 
The stable, free. 



I am in blush of the rose. 
The shimmer of dawn ; 

Am girdle Orion knows, 
The fount undrawn. 



I am earth's potency, 

The chemic ray's, the rain's. 
The reciprocity 

That loads the wains. 



I am, or the heavens fall ! 

I dwell in my woven tent, 
Am immanent in all, — 

Supramanent ! 



A 



Canadian Verse 279 

I am the Life in life, 

Impact and verve of thought, 
The reason's lens and knife, 

The ethic "ought." 

I am of being the stress, 

I am the brooding Dove, 
I am the blessing in "bless," 

The Love in love. 

I am the living thrill 

And fire of poet and seer, 
The breath of man's goodwill. 

The Father near ; 

Am end of the way men grope, 

Core of the ceaseless strife, 
I am man's bread of hope. 

Water of life. 

I am the root of faith, 

Substance of vision, too. 
The spirit shadowed in wraith, 

Urim in dew. 

I am the soul's white Sun, 

Love's slain, enthroned Lamb, 

I am the Holy One, 
I am I AM. 



THE VEILED PRESENCE 

N ashen gray touched faint my night-dark room, 
I flung my window wide to the whispering 
lawn — 
Great God ! I saw the mighty globe from gloom 
Roll with its sleeping millions to the dawn. 



28o A Treasury of 

No tremor spoke its motion swift and vast, 
In hush it swept the awful curve adown, 
The shadow that its rushing speed did cast 
Concealed the Father's hand, the Kingly crown. 



Into the deeps an age has passed since then. 
Yet evermore for me, more humble grown. 
The vision of His awesome presence veiled 

Burns in the flying spheres, still all unknown. 
In nature's mist-immantled seas unsailed, 
And in the deeper shadowed hearts of men. 



THE GHOST FLOWER 

LIKE Israel's seer I come from out the earth 
Confronting with the question air and sky. 
Why dost thou bring me up ? White ghost am I 
Of that which was God's beauty at its birth. 

In eld the sun kist me to ruby red, 

I held my chalice up to heaven's full view. 
The wistful stars dropt down their golden dew. 
And skyey balms exhaled about my bed. 

Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light ! 
The deadly shadows, not the bending blue, 
Spoke to my tranced heart, made false seem 
true, 

And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night, 
O Painter of the flowers, O God most sweet, 
Dost say viy spirit for the light is 77ieet ? 



GLORY-ROSES 

ONLY a penny. Sir ! "— 
A child held to my view 
A bunch of " glory-roses," red 
As blood, and wet with dew. 



Canadian Verse 281 

(O earnest little face, 

With living light in eye, 
Your roses are too fair for earth, 

And you seem of the sky !) 

" My beauties, Sir ! " he said, 

" Only a penny, too ! " — 
His face shone in their ruddy glow 
A Rafael cherub true. 

" Yestreen their hoods were close 

About their faces tight. 
But ere the sun was up, I saw 

That God had come last night. 

O, Sir, to see them then ! 
The bush was all aflame ! — 

yes, they're glory-roses, Sir, 
That is their holy name. 

Only a penny, sir ! " — 

Heaven seemed across the way ! 

1 took the red, red beauties home — 

Roses to me for aye ! 

For aye, that radiant voice 

As if from heaven it came — 
" O yes, they're glory-roses, Sir, 

That is their holy name ! " 



THE CARVEN SHORES 

HOW bold the Imagination and how strong 
That makes so rich with carven-work these 
shores ! 
More gorgeous they than Oriental throng — 
What altar-pomps, and rough with beaten ores ! 



282 A Treasury of 

These great events, once fluid as a song, 
Now gates uplift, e'en His authentic doors ! 
(His stay no tent is for-a-night along 
The murmuring floods and boisterous battle-roars.) 

The wedge of frost, and beetle wave, sand blast, 
With stroke of pencil-sun, and wash of rain. 
Outline unsearchable and shadow vast ! 

And evermore, as moons grow or decline. 
The whirl and speed of tidal lathe and plane 
Shaping chaotic mass to forms divine ! 



WALTER A. RATCLIFFE 

WANTED 

WANTED, a stalwart man ! 
The man who, when he knows the Right, 
The same pursues against all Might ; 
The man who dares to stand alone 
For Conscience' sake when Hope is gone ; 
Who dares to leave a beaten path, 
And live within the light he hath. 
Nor shrinks to strike a deadly blow 
At Error found in friend or foe : 
This is the stalwart man. 

Wanted, an honest man ! 
A man may live within the laws. 
Or 'scape their grasp through flimsy flaws, 
But he who scorns an action mean, 
Is honest where he is not seen. 
Nor dares advance at others' cost, 
Counts all ill-gotten wealth as lost, 
Ne'er grudges each his fullest due. 
Whose word as is his oath is true : 

This is the honest man. 



Canadian Verse 283 

Wanted, a noble man ! 
Not one who from a favored place 
Claims kindred with a worn-out race ; 
Whose empty titles, ancient name, 
Are all his wealth, are all his fame ; 
But one whose usefulness men see. 
Though humble may his station be ; 
For such will bless on every hand 
His friend, his home, his native land : 

This is the noble man. 

Wanted, the broader man ! 
Untrammelled by a narrow creed 
That loves to make its doubters bleed ; 
The man who learns from nature's plan 
That man should love his fellowman ; 
The man whose soul, so deep and true, 
Embraces all as brothers too ; 
The man whom none may buy with pelf, 
The man delivered from himself : 

Such is the needed man. 



JOHN READE 
RIZPAH 

IT is growing dark. 
At such a sunset I have been with Saul — 
But saw it not. I only saw his eyes 
And the wild beauty of his roaming locks. 
And — oh ! there never was a man like Saul ! 
Strong arm, and gentle heart and tender ways 
To win a woman's very soul, were his. 
When he would take my hand and look on me. 
And whisper " Rizpah " — ah ! those days are gone ! 
Why should I weep ? was I not loved by Saul ? 
And Saul was king of all the Land of God. 



284 A Treasury of 

" God save the king ! " But, hush ! what noise was that ? 
Oh heaven ! to think a mother's eyes should look 
On such a sight ! Away ! vile carrion-beast ! 
Those are the sons of Saul, — poor Rizpah's sons. 
O my dead darlings ! O my only joy ! 
O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life, 
Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa, 
Torn from me thus ! 

I have no tears to shed. 
O God ! my heart is broken ! Let me die ! 



Gilboa ! David wrote a song on it, 

And had it put m. Jasher — "Weep for Saul." 

Armoni used to sing it to his harp. 

Poor blackened lips ! . . . 

I wonder if they dream, 
My pretty children. ... 

Come, Mephibosheth, 
Here is your father ; say " God save the king ! " 
The Gibeonites ! Ah ! that was long ago. 
Why should they die for what they never did ? 
No : David never would consent to that ? 



Whose son is he, this youth ? Dost know him, Abner ? 
Ha, ha ! they shout again " God save the king ! " 



Was I asleep ? I came not here to sleep. 

O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak. 

My sons ! No, nought has touched them. O, how 

cold! 
Cold, cold ! O stars of God, have pity on me. 
Poor lonely woman ! O my sons, Saul's sons ! 
Kind stars, watch with me ; let no evil beast 
Rend that dear flesh. O God of Israel, 
Pardon my sins ! My heart is broken ! 



Canadian Verse 285 

PICTURES OF MEMORY 



HERE is the old church. Now I see it all — 
The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall. 
The dear old sleepy town is still abed 
Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red. 
And everything is as this graveyard still. 
Except the soldiers at their morning drill, 
And in the Pool a fishing boat or two 
Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar, 
And the dim curlews on the distant shore, 
And the lark soaring through the ether blue. 
But now the lazy smoke curls through the air — 
I will go down and see who tenant there, 
And meet old friends. "First, wanderer, look around 
And see what friends of thine are underground ! " 

II 

The mountains gather round thee as of yore, 

holy lake, across whose tranquil breast 
Was borne the saint who to the farthest west 
Brought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore. 
There on the islet at the chapel door 

The penitents are kneeling, while along 
There flows the mystic tide of sacred song 
To where I stand upon the rugged shore. 
But now there is a silence weird and dread — 
And utter loneliness is in my heart. 

1 came to seek the living but the dead — 
This is their welcome. Slowly I depart. 
Nor read the name beneath a single cross — 
He still is rich who doth not know his loss. 

Ill 

There is the school-house ; there the lake, the lawn ; 
And there, just fronting it, the barrack square ; 



286 A Treasury of 

But of all those I knew not one is there — 

Even the old gate-keeper — he is gone. 

Ah, me ! ah, me ! when last I stood upon 

This grassy mound, with what proud hopes elate 

I was to wrestle with the strength of fate 

And conquer ! Now — I live and that is all. 

Oh ! happier those whose lot it was to fall 

In noble conflict with their country's foes 

Far on the shores of Taurie Chersonese ! 

Nay, all are blest who answer duty's call. 

But — do I dream or wake ? What ghosts are these ? 

Hush, throbbing heart ! these are the sons of those. 

IV 

Oh ! what could wake to life that first sweet flame 

That warmed my heart when by the little bay 

On blissful summer evenings I lay 

Beneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she came 

Who was to me far more than wealth or fame, 

But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine, 

To make her, if she could be, more divine 

By outer splendor and a noble name. 

Now I may wait in vain from early morn 

Till sunset for the music of her feet. 

And yet how little change has come upon 

This fairy scene her beauty made so sweet ! 

It weareth still the glory of her smile. 

Ah ! if she were but here a little while. 



IN MY HEART 

IN my heart are many chambers through which I 
wander free ; 
Some are furnished, some are empty, some are 

sombre, some are light ; 
Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep 
the key, 

And I enter in the stillness of the night. 



Canadian Verse 287 

But there's one I never enter, — it is closed to even me ! 

Only once its door was opened, and it shut forever- 
more ; 

And though sounds of many voices gather round it, 
like a sea, 

It is silent, ever silent as the shore. 



In that chamber long ago my love's casket was con- 
cealed, 

And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could 
win ; 

And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be 
revealed. 

And I almost hoped that none might enter in. 



Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber 

door, 
Till — she came at last, my darling one, of all the 

earth my own ; 
And she entered — and she vanished with my jewel, 

which she wore ; 

And the door was closed — and I was left alone. 



She gave me back no jewel, but the spirit of her eyes 
Shone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that 

chamber door. 
And the memory of that moment is all I have to 

prize — 

But that, at least, is mine forevermore. 

Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel 

was my love ? 
Did she think it but a bauble she might wear or toss 

aside ? 
I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may prove 
A blessing, though she spurn it in her pride. 



288 A Treasury of 



TO LOUIS FRECHETTE* 

O GIFTED son of our dear land and thine, 
We joy with thee on this thy joyous day, 
And in thy laurel crown would fain entwine 
A modest wreath of our own simple bay ! 
Shamrock and thistle and sweet roses gay. 
Both red and white, with parted lips that smile, 
Like some bright maiden of their native isle — 
These, with the later maple, take, we pray, 
To mingle with thy laurelled lily, long 
Pride of the brave and theme of poet's song. 
They err who deem us aliens. Are not we 
Bretons and Normans, too ? North, south and 

west 
Gave us, like you, of blood and speech their best, 
Here, re-united, one great race to be. 



KINGS OF MEN 

AS hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud, 
Some men seem kings, through mists of 
ignorance ; 
Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud. 
To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance ? 

Must we conspire to curse the humbhng light. 
Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bowed, 
Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight, 
Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd ? 

Oh, no ! God send us light ! — Who loses then ? 
The king of slaves, and not the king of men. 
True kings are kings for ever, crowned of God, 

The King of Kings, — we need not fear for them. 
'Tis only the usurper's diadem 
That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud. 

* On the occasion of his poems being crowned by the French 
Academy. 



Canadian Verse 289 



DOMINION DAY 

CANADA, Canada, land of the maple, 
Queen of the forest and river and lake, 
Open thy soul to the voice of thy people, 
Close not thy heart to the music they make. 
Bells, chime out merrily, 
Trumpets, call cheerily. 
Silence is vocal, and sleep is awake ! 

Canada, Canada, land of the beaver, 

Labor and skill have their triumph to-day ; 
Oh ! may the joy of it flow like a river, 
Wider and deeper as time flies away. 
Bells, chime out merrily, 
Trumpets, call cheerily, 
Science and industry laugh and are gay. 

Canada, Canada, land of the snow-bird, 

Emblem of constancy change cannot kill. 
Faith, that no strange cup has ever unsobered, 
Drinketh, to-day, from love's chalice her fill. 
Bells, chime out merrily, 
Trumpets, call cheerily. 
Loyalty singeth and treason is still ! 

Canada, Canada, land of the bravest. 

Sons of the war-path, and sons of the sea, 

Land of no slave-lash, to-day thou enslavest 

Millions of hearts with affection for thee. 

Bells, chime out merrily, 

Trumpets, call cheerily, 

Let the sky ring with the shout of the free. 

Canada, Canada, land of the fairest. 

Daughters of snow that is kissed by the sun, 

T 



290 A Treasury of 

Binding the charms of all lands that are rarest, 
Like the bright cestus of Venus in one ! 

Bells, chime out merrily, 

Trumpets, call cheerily, 
A new reign of beauty on earth is begun ! 



ROBERT REID 

POESIE 

WHENCE comes the charm that broods along 
thy shore, 
O sunny land of song ? What potent thrall, 
Reckless of ocean's rise, or flow, or fall, 
Holds us about thy marge for evermore ? 
Here, where the long wave breaks in measured time, 
And fills our being with its rhythmic moan, 
From far inland the glories of thy zone 
Burst on our view, and beckon us to cHmb. 

Shades of the mighty dead ! whose snowy towers 
Stud the deep gorges and the wooded braes, 
Is there no nook for cots so small as ours ? 

No tree whereof we yet might gather bays ? 
But to be with thee, and to hear the wave 
Roll music round the land, is all we crave. 



A SONG OF CANADA 

SING me a song of the great Dominion ! 
Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear ! 
Ring out boldly the well-turned measure. 

Voicing your notes that the world may hear ; 
Here is no starveling — Heaven-forsaken — 

Shrinking aside where the Nations throng ; 
Proud as the proudest moves she among them— 
Worthy is she of a noble song ! 



Canadian Verse 291 

sing me the might of her giant mountains, 

Baring their brows in the dazzHng blue ; 
Changeless alone, where all else changes. 

Emblems of all that is grand and true : 
Free as the eagles around them soaring ; 

Fair as they rose from their Maker's hand ; 
Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus — 

The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land ' 

Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests. 

Silence eternal, and peace profound, 
Into whose great heart's deep recesses 

Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound ; 
Face to face with the death-like stillness, 

Here, if at all, man's soul might quail : 
Nay ! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us 

Thither, where solace will never fail ! 

Sing me the pride of her stately rivers. 

Cleaving their way to the far-off sea ; 
Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music — 

Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. 
Hark ! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids ; 

Deep unto deep through the dead night calls ; 
Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom 

Shouting her name from her fortress w^alls ! 

Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, 

League upon league of the golden grain : 
Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead — 

Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. 
Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you. 

Never war's flag on your plains unfurl'd ; 
Only the blessings of mankind reach you — 

Finding the food for a hungry world ! 

Sing me the charm of her blazing camp-fires ; 

Smg me the quiet of her happy homes. 
Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, 

Or in the shade of the city's domes ; 



2 92 A Treasury of 

Sing me her life, her loves, her labors ; 

All of a mother a son would hear ; 
For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding, 

Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear. 



Sing me the worth of each Canadian — 

Roamer in wilderness, toiler in town — 
Search earth over you'll find none stauncher, 

Whether his hands be white or brown ; 
Come of a right good stock to start with. 

Best of the world's blood in each vein ; 
Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one, 

For us or from us, you'll find we're — men ! 

Sing me the song, then ; sing it bravely ; 

Put your soul in the words you sing ; 
Sing me the praise of this glorious country — 

Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. 
Here is no starveling — Heaven-forsaken — 

Crouching apart where the Nations throng ; 
Proud as the proudest moves she among them- 

Well is she worthy a noble song ! 



CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS 
ROBERTS 

A NOCTURNE OF CONSECRATION 

I TALKED about you. Dear, the other night. 
Having myself alone with my delight. 
Alone with dreams and memories of you. 
All the divine-houred summer stillness through 
I talked of life, of love the always new. 
Of tears, and joy, — yet only talked of you. 



Canadian Verse 293 

To the sweet air 

That breathed upon my face 

The spirit of HHes in a leafy place, 

Your breath's caress, the lingering of your hair, 

I said — " In all your wandering through the dusk. 

Your waitings on the marriages of flowers 

Through the long, intimate hours 

When soul and sense, desire and love confer, 

You must have known the best that God has made. 

What do you know of Her ? " 

Said the sweet air — 

" Since I have touched her lips. 

Bringing the consecration of her kiss, 

Half passion and half prayer. 

And all for you. 

My various lore has suffered an eclipse. 

I have forgot all else of sweet I know." 

To the wise earth. 

Kind, and companionable, and dewy cool, 

Fair beyond words to tell, as you are fair, 

And cunning past compare 

To leash all heaven in a windless pool, 

I said — '' The mysteries of death and birth 

Are in your care. 

You love, and sleep ; you drain life to the lees ; 

And wonderful things you know. 

Angels have visited you, and at your knees 

Learned what 1 learn forever at her eyes, 

The pain that still enhances Paradise. 

You in your breast felt her first pulses stir ; 

And you have thrilled to the light touch of her feet, 

Blindingly sweet. 

Now make me wise with some new word of Her." 

Said the wise earth — 
" She is not all my child. 



294 A Treasury of 

But the wild spirit that rules her heart-beats wild 

Is of diviner birth, 

And kin to the unknown light beyond my ken. 

All I can give to Her have I not given ? 

Strength to be glad, to suffer, and to know ; 

The sorcery that subdues the souls of men ; 

The beauty that is as the shadow of heaven ; 

The hunger of love 

And unsi)eakable joy thereof. 

And these are dear to Her because of you. 

You need no word of mine to make you wise 

Who worship at her eyes 

And find there life and love forever new ! " 

To the white stars, 

Eternal and all-seeing, 

In their wide home beyond the wells of being, 

I said — " There is a little cloud that mars 

The mystical perfection of her kiss. 

Mine, mine, She is, 

As far as lip to lip, and heart to heart, 

And spirit to spirit when lips and hands must part. 

Can make her mine. But there is more than this,- 

More, more of Her to know. 

For still her soul escapes me unaware. 

To dwell in secret where I may not go. 

Take, and uplift me. Make me wholly Hers." 

Said the white stars, the heavenly ministers, — 

" This life is brief, but it is only one. 

Before to-morrow's sun 

For one or both of you it may be done. 

This love of yours is only just begun. 

Will all the ecstasy that may be won 

Before this life its little course has run 

At all suffice 

The love that agonizes in your eyes ? 

Therefore be wise. 



Canadian Verse 295 

Content you with the wonder of love that Hes 

Between her Hps and underneath her eyes. 

If more you should surprise, 

What would be left to hope from Paradise ? 

In other worlds expect another joy 

Of Her, which blundering fate shall not annoy, 

Nor time nor change destroy." 

So, Dear, I talked the long, divine night through. 
And felt you in the chrismal balms of dew. 
The thing then learned 
Has ever since within my bosom burned — 
One life is not enough for love of you. 



A NOCTURNE OF SPIRITUAL LOVE 

SLEEP, sleep, imperious heart! Sleep, fair and 
undefiled ! 

Sleep, and be free ! 
Come in your dreams at last, comrade and queen and 
child, — 

At last to me. 

Come, for the honeysuckle calls you out of the night. 

Come, for the air 
Calls with a tyrannous remembrance of delight, 

Passion and prayer. 

Sleep, sovereign heart ! And now — for dream and 
memory 

Endure no door, — 
My spirit undenied goes where my feet, to thee. 

Have gone before. 

A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow. 

Silent, unseen. 
But not, ah not unknown ! Thy spirit knows me now 

Where I have been. 



296 A Treasury of 

Surely my long desire upon thy soul hath power. 

Surely for this 
Thy sleep shall breathe thee forth, soul of the lily 
flower, 

Under my kiss. , 



Sleep, body wonderful ! Wake, spirit wise and wild. 

White and divine ! 
Here is our heaven of dreams, O dear and undefiled. 

All thine, all mine. 



AN ODE FOR THE CANADIAN 
CONFEDERACY 

AWAKE, my country, the hour is great with change ! 
Under this gloom which yet obscures the land, 
From ice-blue strait and stern Laurentian range 

To where giant peaks our western bounds command, 
A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears 

As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder 
forth, 
A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears 
The voice of the desire of this strong North, — 
This North whose heart of fire 
Yet knows not its desire 
Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream. 
The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the 
gleam ! 

Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done ! 

Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate. 
Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun. 

And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait ; 
Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry 

" Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame ! " 
And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh. 

Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name ; — 



Canadian Verse 297 

This name which yet shall grow 

Till all the nations know 
Us for a patriot people, heart and hand 
Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land ! 



O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory. 
Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard ! 
These mighty streams resplendent with our story, 

These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred,— 
What fields of peace these bulwarks will secure ! 

What vales of plenty those calm floods supply ! 
Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make 
sure. 
Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die ? 
O strong hearts of the North, 
Let flame your loyalty forth, 
And put the craven and base to an open shame. 
Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her 



name ! 



CANADIAN STREAMS 

O RIVERS rolling to the sea 
From lands that bear the maple tree, 
How swell your voices with the strain 
Of loyalty and liberty ! 

A holy music, heard in vain 

By coward heart and sordid brain, 

To whom this strenuous being seems 
Naught but a greedy race for gain. 

O unsung streams— not splendid themes 
Ye lack to fire your patriot dreams ! 

Annals of glory gild your waves, 
Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams ! 



298 A Treasury of 

St Lawrence, whose wide water laves 

The shores that ne'er have nourished slaves ! 

Swift RicheHeu of lilied fame ! 
Niagara of glorious graves ! 

Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaim 
Where Daulac and his heroes came ! 

Thy tides, St John, declare La Tour, 
And, later, many a loyal name ! 

Thou inland stream, whose vales, secure 
From storm, Tecumseh's death made poor ! 

And thou, small water, red with war, 
'Twixt Beaubassin and Beausejour ! 

Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar, 
What voice shall from the bastioned shore 

The tale of Roberval reveal, 
Or his mysterious fate deplore ? 

Annapolis, do thy floods yet feel 
Faint memories of Champlain's keel, 

Thy pulses yet the deed repeat 
Of Poutrincourt and d'Iberville ? 

And thou far tide, whose plains now beat 
With march of myriad westering feet, 

Saskatchewan, whose virgin sod 
So late Canadian blood made sweet ? 

Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad, 
Streams where de Salaberry trod. 

Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain. 
Their voices are the voice of God ! 

O sacred waters ! not in vain. 
Across Canadian height and plain. 
Ye sound us in triumphant tone 
The summons of your high refrain. 



Canadian Verse 299 

THE SILVER THAW 

THERE came a day of showers 
Upon the shrinking snow ; 
The south wind sighed of flowers, 

The softening skies hung low. 
Midwinter for a space 
Foreshadowing April's face, 
The white world caught the fancy. 
And would not let it go. 

In reawakened courses 

The brooks rejoiced the land ; 

We dreamed the Spring's shy forces 
Were gathering close at hand. 

The dripping buds were stirred, 

As if the sap had heard 

The long'desired persuasion 
Of April's soft command. 

But antic Time had cheated 

With hope's elusive gleam ; 
The phantom Spring, defeated, 

Fled down the ways of dream. 
And in the night the reign 
Of winter came again. 
With frost upon the forest 

And stillness on the stream. 

When morn in rose and crocus 

Came up the bitter sky. 
Celestial beams awoke us 

To wondering ecstasy. 
The wizard Winter's spell 
Had wrought so passing well, 
That earth was bathed in glory. 

As if God's smile were nigh. 



300 A Treasury of 

The silver'd saplings, bending, 
Flashed in a rain of gems ; 
The statelier trees, attending, 

Blazed in their diadems. 
White fire and amethyst 
All common things had kissed, 
And chrysolites and sapphires 
Adorned the bramble-stems. 

In crystalline confusion 

All beauty came to birth ; 
It was a kind illusion 

To comfort waiting earth — 
To bid the buds forget 
The Spring so distant yet, 
And hearts no more remember 
The iron season's dearth. 



EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORE 

HE who but yesterday would roam 
Careless as clouds, and currents range, 
In homeless wandering most at home, 
Inhabiter of change ; 

Who wooed the West to win the East, 
And named the stars of North and South, 

And felt the zest of P^reedom's feast 
Familiar in his mouth ; 

Who found a faith in stranger-speech, 

And fellowship in foreign hands, 
And had within his eager reach 

The relish of all lands — 

How circumscribed a plot of earth 
Keeps now his restless footsteps still, 

Whose wish was wide as ocean's girth, 
Whose will the water's will ! 



Canadian Verse 



THE TRAIN AMONG THE HILLS 

VAST, unrevealed, in silence and the night 
Brooding, the ancient hills commune with sleep. 
Inviolate the solemn valleys keep 
Their contemplation. Soon from height to height 

Steals a red finger of mysterious light. 
And lion-footed through the forests creep 
Strange mutterings ; till suddenly, with sweep 
And shattering thunder of resistless flight 

And crash of routed echoes, roars to view, 

Down the long mountain gorge, the Night Express, 
Freighted with fears and tears and happiness. . . . 

The dread form passes ; silence falls anew. 

And lo ! I have beheld the thronged, blind world 
To goals unseen from God's hand onward hurled. 



A SONG OF GROWTH 

IN the heart of a man 
Is a thought upfurled. 
Reached its full span 
It shakes the world. 
And to one high thought 
Is a whole race wrought. 

Not with vain noise 
The great work grows, 

Nor with foolish voice. 
But in repose, — 

Not in the rush 
But in the hush. 

From the cogent lash 
Of the cloud-herd wind 

The low clouds dash, 
Blown headlong, blind ; 



302 A Treasury of 

But beyond, the great blue 
Looks moveless through. 



O'er the loud world sweep 
The scourge and the rod 

But in deep beyond deep 
Is the stillness of God;— 

At the Fountains of Life 

No cry, no strife. 



SLEEPY MAN 

WHEN the Sleepy Man comes with dust in his 
eyes 
(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) 
He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. 
(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 

He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun ; 

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) 
The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. 

(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 

He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town ; 

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) 
At the touch of his hand the tired eyehds fall down. 

(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 

He comes with a murmur of dreams in his wings 

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) 
And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. 

(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 

When the top is a burden, the bugle a bane, 

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary !) 
When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane, 

(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 



Canadian Verse 303 

When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry 

(Oh, weary, my Dearie, so w^eary !) 
To Sleepy Man's Castle by Comforting Ferry. 

(So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie !) 



NIGHT IN A DOWN-TOWN STREET 

NOT in the eyed, expectant gloom, 
Where soaring peaks repose 
And incommunicable space 
Companions with the snows ; 

Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls 

Upon the clouded sea, 
Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave 

Complains continually ; 

Not in the palpable dark of woods 
Where groping hands clutch fear, 

Does Night her deeps of solitude 
Reveal unveiled as here. 

The street is a grim canon carved 

In the eternal stone. 
That knows no more the rushing stream 

It anciently has known. 

The emptying tide of Hfe has drained 

The iron channel dry, 
Strange winds from the forgotten day 

Draw down, and dream, and sigh. 

The narrow heaven, the desolate moon 

Made wan with endless years. 
Seem less immeasurably remote 

Than laughter, love, or tears. 



;o4 A Treasury of 



THE FALLING LEAVES 

LIGHTLY He blows, and at His breath they fall, 
The perishing kindreds of the leaves ; they drift, 
Spent flames of scarlet, gold aerial. 

Across the hollow year, noiseless and swift. 
Lightly he blows, and countless as the falling 

Of snow by night upon a solemn sea, 
The ages circle down beyond recalling, 

To strew the hollows of Eternity. 
He sees them drifting through the spaces dim. 
And leaves and ages are as one to Him. 



AN EPITAPH FOR A HUSBANDMAN 

HE who would start and rise 
Before the crowing cocks — 
No more he lifts his eyes, 
Whoever knocks. 

He who before the stars 

Would call the cattle home, — 

They wait about the bars 
For him to come. 

Him at whose hearty calls 
The farmstead woke again, 

The horses in their stalls 
Expect in vain. 

Busy, and blithe, and bold. 
He labored for the morrow, — 

The plough his hands would hold 
Rusts in the furrow. 

His fields he had to leave, 
His orchards cool and dim ; 

The clods he used to cleave 
Now cover him. 



Canadian Verse 305 

But the green, growing things 

Lean kindly to his sleep, — 
White roots and wandering strings, 

Closer they creep. 



Because he loved them long 
And with them bore his part, 

Tenderly now they throng 
About his heart. 



ORIGINS 

OUT of the dreams that heap 
The hollow hand of sleep,- 
Out of the dark sublime, 
The echoing deeps of time, — 
From the averted Face 
Beyond the bournes of space, 
Into the sudden sun 
We journey, one by one. 
Out of the hidden shade 
Wherein desire is made, — 
Out of the pregnant stir 
Where death and life confer, — 
The dark and mystic heat 
Where soul and matter meet, — 
The enigmatic Will, — 
We start ! and then are still. 

Inexorably decreed 
By the ancestral deed, 
The puppets of our sires, 
We work out blind desires, 
And for our sons ordain 
The blessing or the bane. 
In ignorance we stand 
With fate on either hand, 
u 



3o6 A Treasury of 

And question stars and earth 
Of life, and death, and birth. 
With wonder in our eyes 
We scan the kindred skies, 
While through the common grass 
Our atoms mix and pass. 
We feel the sap go free 
When spring comes to the tree ; 
And in our blood is stirred 
What warms the brooding bird. 
The vital fire we breathe 
That bud and blade bequeathe, 
And strength of native clay 
In our full veins hath sway. 

But in the urge intense 
And fellowship of sense, 
Suddenly comes a word 
In other ages heard. 
On a great wind our souls 
Are borne to unknown goals, 
And past the bournes of space 
To the unaverted Face. 



THE WRESTLER 

WHEN God sends out His company to travel 
through the stars, 
There is every kind of wonder in the show ; 
There is every kind of animal behind its prison 

bars ; 
With riders in a many-colored row. 
The master showman. Time, has a strange trick of 

rhyme, 
And the clown's most ribald jest is a tear ; 
But the best drawing card is the Wrestler huge and 

hard, 
Who can fill the tent at any time of year. 



Canadian Verse 307 

His eye is on the crowd, and he beckons with his 

hand, 
With authoritative finger, and they come. 
The rules of the game they do not understand, 
But they go as in a dream, and are dumb. 
They would fain say him nay, and they look the 

other way. 
Till at last to the ropes they cling ; 
But he throws them one by one till the show for them 

is done. 
In the blood-red dust of the ring. 

There's none to shun his challenge — they must meet 

him soon or late, 
And he knows a cunning trick for all heels. 
The king's haughty crown drops in jeers from his 

pate 
As the hold closes on him, and he reels. 
The burly and the proud, the braggarts of the crowd, 
Every one of them he topples down in thunder. 
His grip grows mild for the dotard and the child. 
But alike they must all go under. 

Oh, many a mighty foeman would try a fall with him — 

Persepolis and Babylon and Rome, 

Assyria and Sardis, they see their fame grow dim. 

As he tumbles in the dust every dome. 

At length will come an hour when the stars shall feel 

his power. 
And he shall have his will upon the sun. 
Ere we know what he's about, the stars will be put out. 
And the wonder of the show will be undone. 



RECESSIONAL 

NOW along the solemn heights 
Fade the Autumn's altar-lights ; 
Down the great earth's glimmering chancel 
Glide the days and nights. 



3o8 A Treasury of 

Little kindred of the grass, 
Like a shadow in a glass 

Falls the dark and falls the stillness ; 
We must rise and pass. 

We must rise and follow, wending 
Where the nights and days have ending,- 

Pass in order pale and slow 
Unto sleep extending. 

Little brothers of the clod. 
Soul of fire and seed of sod, 

We must fare into the silence 
At the knees of God. 

Little comrades of the sky 
Wing to wing we wander by, 
Going, going, going, going, 
Softly as a sigh. 

Hark, the moving shapes confer, 
Globe of dew and gossamer, 

Fading and ephemeral spirits 
In the dusk astir. 

Moth and blossom, blade and bee, 
Worlds must go as well as we, 

In the long procession joining 
Mount, and star, and sea. 

Toward the shadowy brink we climb 
Where the round year rolls sublime. 
Rolls, and drops, and falls forever 
In the vast of time ; 

Like a plummet plunging deep 
Past the utmost reach of sleep, 

Till remembrance has no longer 
Care to laugh or weep. 



Canadian Verse 309 



ASCRIPTION 

OTHOU who hast beneath Thy hand 
The dark foundations of the land,- 
The motion of whose ordered thought 
An instant universe hath wrought ; 

Who hast within Thine equal hand 
The roUing sun, the ripening seed, 
The azure of the speedwell's eye. 
The vast solemnities of sky, — 

Who hear'st no less the feeble note 
Of one small bird's awakening throat 
Than that unnamed, tremendous chord 
Arcturus sounds before his Lord, — 

More sweet to Thee than all acclaim 
Of storm and ocean, stars and flame, 
In favor more before Thy face 
Than pageantry of time and space, 

The worship and the service be 
Of him Thou madest most Hke Thee, — 
Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath, 
Whose spirit is the lord of death ! 



THEODORE ROBERTS 

THE SPEARS OF KAN-MAR 

EYES that we look into — so, 
Hands that we kiss ere we go, 
Keep us, — remember us, hold us a night and a day ; 
For the white road stretches ahead, 
And our spears have a vision of red. 
And our horses champ with their bits, and rear at the 
way. 



310 A Treasury of 

The tussocks of grass in the glare 
Are brown as a dream-maiden's hair, 
And over them, white in the sun, the spears of Kan- 
Mar ; 
The curbs, and the froth at the hps — 
The bridle chains snapping like whips, 
And our plumes tossed red, and scenting the heels of 
war. 



The eyes that twinkle and burn — 

The wrists like elk-thongs that turn 
With the balancing, pausing, slender, murderous spear; 

The swords that lead us along. 

The thrust, the shriek and the song — 
Sights not fit for their eyes, nor sounds for their ears 
to hear. 

The city gates in the sun. 
The glory of brave deeds done. 
The clatter of horning hoofs and the song of old Kan- 
Mar, 
The roar of the narrow street 
Filled with clanging of feet — 
The white hands over the balconies, and the kiss on 
the burning scar ! 



COLD 

" pOLD," cried the wind on the hill, 
^ " Cold," sang the tree ; 

Your eyes were blue-grey and still 
And cold as the sea. 

Cold lay the snow on the land ; 

Cold stood the pine ; 
But neither as cold as your hand 

Lying in mine. 



Canadian Verse 311 

Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon — 

Just smoldered and gone ; 
A kiss by the light of the moon, 

A parting by dawn. 



THE MEN OF MY HEART'S DESIRE 

WHERE are the men of my heart's desire? 
Of the British blood and the loyal names ? 
Some are North, at the home hearth-fire. 

Where the hemlock glooms and the maple flames, 
And some are tramping the old world round 
For the pot of gold they have never found. 

Oh, leal are the men of my heart's desire— 
Their fathers were leal in the days gone by — 

And their blood is blithe with the subtle fire 
The purple breeds, and their hearts are high, — 

Poor, and gallant, and dear to me, 

With a strong hand each, and a pedigree. 

Good men are bred in the East and the West, 
And ripe, true gentles in Boston town, 

But the men of my blood to my blood seem best — 
Who still hold the honor of Mitre and Crown. 

Though empty their cellars and worn their attire, 

These are the men of my heart's desire. 

So, gentles, these stumbling rhymes I send 

To our spruce-clad hills, for a word of cheer, — 

Where there's ever a welcome and ever a friend, 
And the brown coat covers the cavalier. 

Take them, I pray you, for what they are worth, 

For I swear by my soul you're the salt of the earth. 



12 A Treasury of 

THE CHASE 

DOWN the long lanes of Arcadie 
My lady canters merrily ; 
The grain is bleaching in the sun, 

The russet hickories confer, 
And mounted on old Cheveron 
With laughing call I follow her. 

The maples stand in flaming red, 
The sturdy brakes are sere and dead; 
But still my lady canters on 

Through field and wood and busy town, 
And mounted on old Cheveron 

I try to ride her down. 

Through the long lanes of Arcadie 
The crickets skip and chirp to me ; 
My lady's just 'round yonder bend, 

Methinks I hear her call to me — 
Methinks our chase is at an end 

Through these long lanes of Arcadie ! 

Nay, still she canters down the lane 
With floating skirt and loosened rein. 
We've traveled all this summer land, 

And still we mount and gallop on ; 
Sometimes she turns and waves her hand, 

A challenge to old Cheveron. 

Through all this land of Arcadie 
She leads old Cheveron and me, 
And how her good mount stands it so 

Is really more than I can see ; 
The valleys now are white with snow. 

Yet still we ride through Arcadie. 

Old Cheveron has cast his shoes ! 
The Chase is up, my Lady Muse ! 



Canadian Verse 3^3 

WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS 
HISTORY 

HER gold hair fallen about her face 
Made light within that shadowy place, 
But on her garments lay the dust 
Of many a vanished race. 

Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead, 
Saw years and days and hours long dead. 

While strange gems gUmmered at her feet, 
Yellow, and green, and red. 

And ever from the shadows came 
Voices to pierce her heart like flame. 

The great bats fanned her with their wmgs. 
The voices called her name. 

But yet her look turned not aside 
From the black deep where dreams abide, 
Where worlds and pageantries lay dead 
Beneath that viewless tide. 

Her elbow on her knee was set, 

Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet 

No man might name that look she wore, 
Nor any man forget. 

AN EASTER MEMORY 

THE chime of bells across the waking year 
Peals out *' The White Christ risen from the 
dead "— 
The gospel that the April winds have spread. 
The mystery the golden-wing makes clear. 



314 A Treasury of 

The tender sky smiles over it ; the air 
Is kind with love to comfort all the earth. 
The brown parks have forgotten winter's dearth 

Since daffodils and sunlight made them fair. 

But still the gray church from the crowded street 
Allures me with the spell of broken dreams. 
O heart, my heart, to you and me it seems 

That God has left His glory incomplete. 

Can we not see her, as a year ago, 

Beyond that sunlight flaked in colored fire — 
The upturned face, the eyes of still desire, 

The dusk-gold hair that now the angels know ? 

What means this tender April sky to her, 

With bells that chime against the winds of spring? 
Does memory move her when the blue birds sing. 

Or does she feel the old sweet pulses stir ? 

The organ lays its voice across our strife. 

What is it that the sobbing notes would say ? 

For you and me, my heart, another day ! 
For her — the Resurrection and the Life ! 



MY COMRADE CANOE 

TRUE comrade, we have tasted life together ; 
With the wild joy at heart have slipped the tether 
To follow, follow, to strange wildernesses, 
The frank enticement of the wind and weather. 



Joy of the quivering pole, the thrilling sinew, 
When mad black rapids shook the soul within you. 

As climbing toward the lakes of inland silence 
I laughed to see the fanged rocks strain to win you. 



Canadian Verse 315 

Joy of the moonlight on the quiet reaches, 
Where loitering we caught the word that teaches 

The poise of Godhead to the questing spirit, 
The urge of springtime to the budding beeches. 

When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing, 
Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing 

The stormy fire above the western spruces, 
The looming moose would wonder at our passing. 

Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us. 
When winds would tell no more what once they told us, 

We dreamed how far away a little village 
Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us. 



GEORGE JOHN ROMANES 
I ASK NOT FOR THY LOVE, O LORD 

I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord ; the days 
Can never come when anguish shall atone. 
Enough for me were but Thy pity shown 
To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays, 

With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways — 
Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known, 
Or find me in the wilderness alone, 
And slay me as the hand of mercy slays. 

I ask not for Thy love ; nor e'en so much 
As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie ; 
But be Thou still my shepherd— still with such 

Compassion as may melt to such a cry ; 

That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch, 
And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die. 



3i6 A Treasury of 



CARROLL RYAN 

From "MALTA" 

/O, BELLA fior del niondo I to-morrow 

I'll leave thee to follow the path of the sun, 
No more to return, yet departing in sorrow — 

The stranger may go as the stranger hath done. 
I've met the hot breath of the scorching siroc 

As I guarded thy ramparts that frown on the 
sea, 
I've lain 'neath the shade of the vine-covered rock 
Weaving bright fancies of glory and thee. . . . 

Old Notabile * stands upon a hill 

With olive groves and vineyards at its base, 
Its lofty wall, half-ruined, beareth still 
Of siege and battle many a cruel trace ; 
The centre of this lovely isle, — 

The home of song and story, — 
Whose tranquil beauty seems to smile 

Forgetful of its glory. 
Deserted streets of marble halls. 
And temples grand and olden, 
Where startled Echo rarely calls 

Strange sounds thro' sunlight golden : 
High convent walls in ivy wrapt, 

Shrines of our blessed Lady, 
In melancholy silence lapt. 
In lanes of cypress shady. 
And now and then 
Queer aged men 
Pass where the bastions moulder, 
And seem to me. 
So strange they be, 
Old as the place or older. 

* Citta Vecchia 



Canadian Verse 3^7 

And carved in stone above each door 

Is many a knightly crest, 
That flamed in hostile fields of yore — 

But now the sparrow's nest. 
The winged hand still grasps the sword 

Before the ancient palace ; 
In dungeons underneath is stored 

Verdala's burning chalice. 
And Bellfiore's ruined wall 

Frowns on the peasant's labor, 
While from its brow strange echoes call 

Of song, and pipe, and tabor. 
Oh ! what a host of shadows wait 
Before yon dark unopened gate ; 
Heroes from the east and west, 
In their iron armor drest, 
The white cross gleaming on each breast ; 
Stern warriors of the cross are they — 
Those shadows of a former day ! 

But hark ! 
In the dark 
The bells are tolling. 

While, up from the Levant, 
The night cloud is rolling. 
O, those bells ! those Malta bells, 

Loudly, wildly ringing. 
High their deafening chorus swells. 
All my spirit winging. 

Now higher, higher, 
The iron choir 
Like tongues of fire 

From earth ascend ; 
The wide air beating, 
Their notes repeating, 
Like spirits meeting 

They rise and blend 1 



3i8 A Treasury of 

Now coming softly 

From belfrys lofty 
Sweet silver voices float thro' the gloom, 

Then, loud as thunder, 

From Cassels under 

Rush sounds of wonder 
As if from the tomb ! 

They cease, and slowly from afar, 
Where Dhingli's vale reposes, 

I hear a voice and see a star 
That beams on paths of roses ! 



CHARLES SANGSTER 
ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

GREATEST tw^ain among the nations, 
Bound alike by kindred ties — 
Ties that never should be sundered 

While your banners grace the skies — 
But united, stand and labor. 

Side by side, and hand in hand, 
Battling with the sword of Freedom 

For the peace of every land. 
Yours the one beloved language. 

Yours the same religious creed, 
Yours the glory and the power. 

Great as ever was the meed 
Of old Rome, or Greece, or Sparta, 

When their arms victoriously 
Proved their terrible puissance 

Over every land and sea. 

Let the son respect the sire, 

Let the father love the son. 
Both unitedly supporting 

All the glories they have won : 



Canadian Verse 319 

Thus in concert nobly wrestling, 

They may work the world's release, 
And when having crushed its tyrants, 

Stand the Sentinels of Peace — 
Stand the mighty twin Colossus' 

Giants of the latter days, 
Straightening for the coming kingdom 

All the steep and rugged ways, 
Down which many a lofty nation — 

Lofty on the scroll of fame — 
Has been swept to righteous judgment, 

Naught remaining but its name. 

What ! allied to Merrie England, 

Have ye not a noble birth ? 
Yours, America, her honors. 

Yours her every deed of worth. 
Have ye not her Norman courage ? 

Wear ye not her Saxon cast ? 
Boast ye not her love of Freedom ? 

Do ye not revere the past 
When her mighty men of genius — 

Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope — 
Glorified that self-same language. 

Since become your pride and hope ? . . . 

There will come a time, my Brothers, 

And a dread time it will be, 
When your swords will flash together. 

For your faith in jeopardy. 
Not for crowns, or lands, or sceptres, 

Will the fight be fought and won. 
Not for fame, or treaties broken, 

But for God and God alone : 
For the mind with which He blessed us. 

That a false creed would keep down, 
Shackle — bind it to its purpose — 

To uphold a falling crown. 



320 A Treasury of 

See that then ye fail not, Brothers ! 

Set the Hstening skies aglow 
With such deeds as live in heaven, 

If your Faith be worth a blow. 

Proud, then, of each other's greatness, 
Ever struggle side by side ; 
Noble Son ! time-honored Parent ! 

Let no paltry strife divide 
Hearts like yours, that should be mindful 

Only of each other's worth — 
Mindful of your high position 

'Mongst the powers of the earth. 
Mightiest twain among the nations ! 

Bound alike by kindred ties — 
Ties that never should be sundered. 

While your banners grace the skies : 
Hearts and destinies once united, 

Steadfast to each other prove, 
Bind them with enduring fetters — 

Bind them with the Bonds of Love. 



A LIVING TEMPLE 

I SAT within the temple of her heart. 
And watched the living soul as it passed through, 
Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. 
The calm, immortal presence made me start. 
It searched through all the chambers of her mind 
With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view 
The fastnesses of feeling, strong — secure 
And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined 
And offers incense in her heart, as on 
An altar sacred unto God. The dawn 
Of an imperishable love passed through 
The lattice of my senses, and I, too. 
Did offer incense in that solemn place — 
A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by grace. 



Canadian Verse 321 

THE ILLUMINED GOAL 

SLOWLY rose the daedal Earth 
Through the purple-hued abysm, 
Glowing like a gorgeous prism, 
Heaven exulting o'er its birth. 

Still the mighty wonder came 

Through the jasper-colored sphere. 
Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, 

TrembHng to the loud acclaim. 

In a haze of golden rain 

Up the heavens rolled the sun, 

Danae-hke the earth was won. 
Else his love and light were vain. 

So the heart and soul of man 

Own the light and love of heaven ; 
Nothing yet in vain was given. 

Nature's is a perfect plan. 

LOVE'S RENEWAL 

LOVE'S sun, like that of day, may set, and set. 
It hath as bright a rising in the morn. 
True love has no grey hairs ; his golden locks 
Can never whiten with the snows of time. 
Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart. 
Like snow upon the evergreens ; but love 
Can gather sweetest honey by the way. 
E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief.— 
We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the 

world 
Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled, 
God ever opens up new founts of bliss- 
Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul 



322 A Treasury of 

Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins. 
We carve our sorrows on the face of joy, 
Reversing the true image ; we are weak 
Where strength is needed most, and most is given. 



'TIS SUMMER STILL 

"T^IS Summer still, yet now and then a leaf 

i Falls from some stately tree. True type of life ! 
How emblematic of the pangs that grief 
Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one 
Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife 
And natural passions of our stately youth. 
And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. 
Each step conducts us through an opening door 
Into new halls of being, hand in hand 
With grave Experience, until we command 
The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store 
The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. 
As on hfe's tottering precipice we stand. 
Our sins, like withered leaves, are blown about the 
land. 



DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT 

THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL 

PALLID saffron glows the broken stubble, 
Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, 
Purple the ploughed hill ; 
Down a sluice with break and bubble 

Hollow falls the rill ; 
Falls and spreads and searches. 
Where, beyond the wood, 
Starts a group of silver birches, 
Bursting into blood. 



Canadian Verse 32 

Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, 
Down a path of rosy gold 

Floats the slender moon ; 
Ringing from the rounded barrow 

Rolls the robin's tune ; 
Lighter than the robin — hark ! 

Quivering silver-strong 
From the field a hidden shore-lark 

Shakes his sparkling song. 

Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, 
Dimmer grow the burnished rills. 

Breezes creep and halt, 
Soon the guardian night shall kindle 

In the violet vault. 
All the twinkling tapers, 

Touched with steady gold. 
Burning through the lawny vapors 

Where they float and fold. 

ABOVE ST IR6n6e 

I RESTED on the breezy height, 
In cooler shade and clearer air, 
Beneath a maple tree ; 

Below, the mighty river took 
Its sparkling shade and sheening light 
Down to the sombre sea, 

And clustered by the leaping brook 
The roofs of white St Irenee. 

The sapphire hills on either hand 
Broke down upon the silver tide, 
The river ran in streams, 

In streams of mingled azure-grey, 
With here a broken purple band. 
And whorls of drab, and beams 

Of shattered silver light astray. 
Where far away the south shore gleams. 



324 A Treasury of 

I walked a mile along the height 
Between the flowers upon the road, 
Asters and golden-rod ; 

And in the gardens pinks and stocks, 
And gaudy poppies shaking light, 

And daisies blooming near the sod. 

And lowly pansies set in flocks, 
With purple monkshood overawed. 



And there I saw a little child, 
Between the tossing golden-rod, 
Coming along to me ; 

She was a tender little thing. 
So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, 
I thought her name Marie ; 

No other name methought could cling 
To any one so fair as she. 

And when we came at last to meet, 
I spoke a simple word to her, 
" Where are you going, Marie ? " 

She answered, and she did not smile, 
But oh I her voice, — her voice so sweet, 
" Down to St Irenee," 

And so passed on to walk her mile, 
And left the lonely road to me. 



And as the night came on apace. 
With stars above the darkened hills, 
I heard perpetually. 

Chiming along the falling hours. 
On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, 
" Down to St Irenee : " 

It seemed as if the stars and flowers 
Should all go there with me. 



o 



Canadian Verse 325 



OFF RIVlfeRE DU LOUP 

SHIP incoming from the sea 
With all your cloudy tower of sail, 



Dashing the water to the lee, 

And leaning grandly to the gale ; 



The sunset pageant in the west 

Has filled your canvas curves with rose, 
And jewelled every toppling crest 

That crashes into silver snows ! 



You know the joy of coming home 

After long leagues to France or Spain ; 

You feel the clear Canadian foam 
And the gulf water heave again. 

Between these sombre purple hills 
That cool the sunset's molten bars, 

You will go on as the wind wills. 
Beneath the river's roof of stars. 

You will toss onward toward the lights 
That spangle over the lone pier, 

By hamlets glimmering on the heights, 
By level islands black and clear : 

You will go on beyond the tide, 

Through brimming plains of olive sedge, 
Through paler shallows light and wide, 

The rapids piled along the ledge. 

At evening off some reedy bay 

You will swing slowly on your chain, 

And catch the scent of dewy hay, 
Soft blowing from the pleasant plain. 



326 A Treasury of 



THE END OF THE DAY 

I HEAR the bells at eventide 
Peal slowly one by one, 
Near and far off they break and glide ; 

Across the stream float faintly beautiful 
The antiphonal bells of Hull ; 
The day is done, done, done, 
The day is done. 

The dew has gathered in the flowers, 

Like tears from some unconscious deep : 
The swallows whirl around the towers. 

The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars. 

And leaves the single stars ; 
'Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, 

'Tis time for sleep. 

The hermit thrush begins again, — 

Timorous eremite — 
That song of risen tears and pain, 

As if the one he loved was far away : 

' Alas ! another day — ' 
' And now Good Night, Good Night,' 

' Good Night.' 



A FLOCK OF SHEEP 

OVER the field the bright air clings and tingles 
In the gold sunset, while the red wind swoops ; 
Upon the nibbled knolls, and from the dingles, 
The sheep are gathering in frightened groups. 

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, 
A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh ; 

And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, 
Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff. 



Canadian Verse 327 

Now crowding into little groups and eddies 
They swirl about and charge and try to pass ; 

The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies 
And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass. 

They stand a moment with their heads upHfted 
Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, 

They all at once roll over and are drifted 
Down the small hill toward the river bank. 

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches 
Around the fallen bars they flow and leap ; 

The wary dog stands by and keenly watches 
As if he knew the name of every sheep. 

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, 
The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, 

And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces 
They round and vanish past the dusky pines. 

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder. 
The singing youth puts up the heavy bars. 

Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, 
And catches in his eyes the early stars. 



MEMORY 

I SEE a schooner in the bay 
Cutting the current into foam ; 
One day she flies and then one day 
Comes like a swallow veering home. 

I hear a water miles away 

Go sobbing down the wooded glen ; 
One day it falls and then one day 

Comes sobbing on the wind again. 



328 A Treasury of 

Remembrance goes but will not stay ] 
That cry of unpermitted pain 

One day departs and then one day 
Comes sobbing to my heart again. 



HOME SONG 

THERE is rain upon the window, 
There is wind upon the tree ; 
The rain is slowly sobbing, 
The wind is blowing free : 
It bears my weary heart 
To my own country. 

I hear the whitethroat calling. 
Hid in the hazel ring ; 
Deep in the misty hollows 
I hear the sparrows sing ; 
I see the bloodroot starting, 
All silvered with the spring. 

I skirt the buried reed-beds, 

In the starry solitude : 

My snowshoes creak and whisper, 

I have my ready blood. 

I hear the lynx-cub yelling 

In the gaunt and shaggy wood. 

I hear the wolf-tongued rapid 
Howl in the rocky break ; 
Beyond the pines at the portage 
I hear the trapper wake 
His En roulant ma botclc, 
From the clear gloom of the lake. 

O ! take me back to the homestead. 
To the great rooms warm and low, 



Canadian Verse 329 

Where the frost creeps on the casement, 
When the year comes in with snow. 
Give me, give me the old folk 
Of the dear long ago. 

Oh, land of the dusky balsam, 
And the darling maple tree. 
Where the cedar buds and berries, 
And the pine grows strong and free ! 
My heart is weary and weary 
For my own country. 

LIFE AND DEATH 

T THOUGHT of death beside the lonely sea, 
1 That went beyond the limit of my sight, 
Seeming the image of his mastery. 
The semblance of his huge and gloomy might. 

But nrm beneath the sea went the great earth, 
With sober bulk and adamantine hold. 
The water but a mantle for her girth. 
That played about her splendor fold on told. 

And life seemed like this dear familiar shore. 
That stretched from the wet sands' last wavy crease. 
Beneath the sea's remote and sombre roar, 
To inland stillness and the wilds of peace. 

Death seems triumphant only here and there ; 
Life is the sovereign presence everywhere. 

OTTAWA 

CITY about whose brow the north winds blow, 
Girdled with woods and shod with river foam, 
Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, 
Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow ; 



330 A Treasury of 

Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, 
The Lamia city of the northern star, 
Than be so hard with craft or wild with war. 

Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe. 

Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears. 
And thou wilt live to be too strong for Time ; 
For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns. 
But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years, 
Cinctured with peace and crowned with power 
sublime. 
The maiden queen of all the towered towns. 



GEORGE FREDERICK SCOTT 

A REVERIE 

O TENDER love of long ago, 
O buried love, so near me still 
On tides of thought that ebb and flow. 

Beyond the empire of the will ; 
To-night with mingled joy and pain 
I fold thee to my heart again. 

And down the meadows, dear, we stray. 
And under woods still clothed in green. 

Though many springs have passed away 
And many harvests there have been, 

Since through the youth-enchanted land 

We wandered idly hand in hand. 

Then every brook was loud with song, 
And every tree was stirred with love, 

And every breeze that passed along 
Was like the breath of God above ; — 

And now to-night we go the ways 

We went in those sweet summer days. 



Canadian Verse 331 

Dear love, thy dark and earnest eyes 

Look up as tender as of yore, 
And, purer than the evening skies, 

Thy cheeks have still the rose they wore ; 
I — I have changed, but thou art fair 
And fresh as in life's morning air. 

What little hands these were to chain 

So many years a wayward heart ; 
How slight a girlish form to reign 

As queen upon a throne apart 
In a man's thought, through hopes and fears, 
And all the changes of the years. 

Dear girl, behold, thy boy is now 
A man, and grown to middle-age ; 

The lines are deep upon his brow. 

His heart hath been grief's hermitage ; 

But hidden where no eye can see. 

His boyhood's love still lives for thee, — 

Still blooms above thy grave to-day. 
Where death hath harvested the land, 

Though such long years have passed away 
Since down the meadows hand in hand 

We went, with hearts too full to know 

How deep their love was long ago. 



EASTER ISLAND 

'X'HERE lies a lone isle in the tropic seas, — 

A mountain isle, with beaches shining white. 
Where soft stars smile upon its sleep by night. 
And every noonday fans it with a breeze. 

Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees. 
Three uncouth statues of gigantic height. 
Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light, 
Stare out to ocean over the tall trees. 



332 A Treasury of 

Forever gaze they at the sea and sky, 
Forever hear the thunder of the main, 
Forever watch the ages die away ; 
And ever round them rings the phantom cry 
Of some lost race that died in human pain, 

Looking towards heaven, yet seeing no more than 
they. 



A DREAM OF THE PREHISTORIC 

NAKED and shaggy, they herded at eve by the 
sound of the seas, 
When the sky and the ocean were red as with 
blood from the battles of God, 
And the wind like a monster sped forth with its feet 
on the rocks and the trees. 
And the sands of the desert blew over the wastes 
of the drought-smitten sod. 

Here, mad with the torments of hunger, despairing 
they sank to their rest. 
Some crouching alone in their anguish, some 
gathered in groups on the beach ; 
And with tears almost human the mother looked 
down at the babe on her breast, 
And her pain was the germ of our love, and her 
cry was the root of our speech. 



Then a cloud from the sunset arose, like a cormorant 
gorged with its prey, 
And extended its wings on the sky till it smothered 
the stars in its gloom, 
And ever the famine-worn faces were wet with the 
wind-carried spray, 
And dimly the voice of the deep to their ears was 
a portent of doom. 



Canadian Verse 333 

And the dawn that rose up on the morrow, apparelled 
in gold like a priest, 
Through the smoke of the incense of morning, 
looked down on a vision of death ; 
For the vultures were gathered together and circled 
with joy to their feast 
On hearts that had ceased from their sorrow, and 
lips that had yielded their breath. 

Then the ages went by like a dream, and the shore- 
line emerged from the deep, 
And the stars as they watched through the years 
saw a change on the face of the earth ; 
For over the blanket of sand that had covered the 
dead in their sleep 
Great forests grew up with their green, and the 
sources of rivers had birth. 

And here in the aftertimes, man, the white faced and 
smooth-handed, came by, 
And he built him a city to dwell in and temples of 
prayer to his God ; 
He filled it with music and beauty, his spirit aspired 
to the sky. 
While the dead by whose pain it was fashioned lay 
under the ground that he trod. 

He wrenched from great Nature her secrets, the stars 
in their courses he named, 
He weighed them and measured their orbits; he 
harnessed the horses of steam ; 
He captured the lightnings of heaven, the waves of 
the ocean he tamed, — 
And ever the wonder amazed him as one that 
awakes from a dream. 

But under the streets and the markets, the banks and 
the temples of prayer. 
Where humanity laboured and plotted, or loved with 
an instinct divine, 



334 A Treasury of 

Deep down in the silence and gloom of the earth that 
had shrouded them there 
Were the fossil remains of a skull and the bones of 
what once was a spine. 

Enfolded in darkness forever, untouched by the 
changes above, 
And mingled as clay with the clay which the hands 
of the ages had brought, 
Were the hearts in whose furnace of anguish was 
smelted the gold of our love, 
And the brains from whose twilight of instinct has 
risen the dawn of our thought. 

But the law, that was victor of old with its heel on 
the neck of the brute. 
Still tramples our hearts in the darkness, still grinds 
down our face in the dust ; 
We are sown in corruption and anguish — whose 
fingers will gather the fruit? 
Our life is but lent for a season — for whom do we 
hold it in trust? 

In the vault of the sky overhead, in the gulfs that lie 
under our feet. 
The wheels of the universe turn, and the laws of 
the universe blend ; 
The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of 
forces that beat 
In the surf of the furthest star's sea, and are spent 
and regathered to spend. 

Yet we trust in the will of the Being whose fingers 
have spangled the night 
With the dust of a myriad worlds, and who speaks 
in the thunders of space ; 
Though we see not the start or the finish, though 
vainly we cry for the light, 
Let us mount in the glory of manhood and meet 
the God-Man face to face. 



G 



Canadian Verse 335 



DAWN 

THE immortal spirit hath no bars 
To circumscribe its dwelHng-place ; 
My soul hath pastured with the stars 
Upon the meadow-lands of space. 

My mind and ear at times have caught, 
From realms beyond our mortal reach, 

The utterance of Eternal Thought, 
Of which all nature is the speech. 

And high above the seas and lands, 

On peaks just tipped with morning light, 

My dauntless spirit mutely stands 
With eagle wings outspread for flight. 



VAN ELSEN 

OD spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul ; 
He spake by sickness first, and made him whole ; 
Van Elsen heard Him not. 
Or soon forgot. 



God spake to him by wealth ; the world outpoured 
Its treasures at his feet, and called him lord ; 

Van Elsen's heart grew fat 

And proud thereat. 

God spake the third time when the great world smiled, 
And in the sunshine slew his little child ; 

Van Elsen like a tree 

Fell hopelessly. 

Then in the darkness came a voice which said, 
'* As thy heart bleedeth, so My heart hath bled ; 

As I have need of thee, 

Thou needest Me." 



336 A Treasury of 

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, 
And kneehng by the narrow winding sheet, 
Praised Him with fervent breath 
Who conquered death. 



CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY 

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW 

SPEED on, speed on, good Master 1 
The camp Hes far away ; 
We must cross the haunted valley 
Before the close of day. 

How the snow-blight came upon me 

I will tell you as I go, — 
The blight of the Shadow hunter, 

Who walks the midnight snow. 

To the cold December heaven 

Came the pale moon and the stars, 

As the yellow sun was sinking 
Behind the purple bars. 

The snow was deeply drifted 

Upon the ridges drear. 
That lay for miles around me 

And the camps for which we steer. 

'Twas silent on the hill-side, 

And by the solemn wood. 
No sound of life or motion 

To break the solitude, 

Save the wailing of the moose-bird 
With a plaintive note and low, 

And the skating of the red leaf 
Upon the frozen snow. 



Canadian Verse 337 

And said I, '' Though dark is falling, 

And far the camp must be, 
Yet my heart it would be lightsome 

If I had but company." 

And then I sang and shouted, 

Keeping measure, as I sped. 
To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe 

As it sprang beneath my tread. 

Nor far into the valley 

Had I dipped upon my way, 
When a dusky figure joined me. 

In a capuchon of grey, 

Bending upon the snow-shoes, 

With a long and limber stride ; 
And I hailed the dusky stranger 

As we travelled side by side. 

But no token of communion 

Gave he by word or look, 
And the fear-chill fell upon me 

At the crossing of the brook. 

For I saw by the sickly moonlight 

As I followed, bending low. 
That the walking of the stranger 

Left no footmarks on the snow. 

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me, 

Like a shroud around me cast. 
As I sank upon the snow-drift 

Where the Shadow-hunter passed. 

And the other-trappers found me. 

Before the break of day. 
With my dark hair blanched and whitened 

As the snow in which I lay. 

Y 



2,2,S A Treasury of 

But they spoke not as they raised me ; 

For they knew that in the night 
I had seen the Shadow-hunter, 

And had withered in his Wight. 

Sancta Maria speed us ! 

The sun is falHng low, — 
Before us Hes the valley 

Of the Walker of the Snow ! 



FRANCIS SHERMAN 

THE BUILDER 

COME and let me make thee glad 
In this house that I have made ! 
Nowhere (I am unafraid !) 
Canst thou find its like on Earth : 
Come, and learn the perfect worth 
Of the labor I have had. 

I have fashioned it for thee. 
Every room and pictured wall ; 
Every marble pillar tall, 
Every door and window-place ; 
All were done that thy fair face 
Might look kindlier on me. 

Here, moreover, thou shalt find 
Strange, delightful, far-brought things : 
Dulcimers, whose tightened strings 
Once dead women loved to touch ; 
(Deeming they could mimic much 
Of the music of the wind !) 

Heavy candlesticks of brass ; 
Chess-men carved of ivory ; 



Canadian Verse 339 

Mass-books written perfectly 
By some patient monk of old ; 
Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, 
Set with gems and colored glass ; 

Burnished armor, once some knight 
(Dead, I deem, long years ago !) 
Its great strength was glad to know 
When his lady needed him : 
(Now that both his eyes are dim 
Both his sword and shield are bright !) 

Come, and share these things with me, 

Men have died to leave to us ! 

We shall find life glorious 

In this splendid house of love ; 

Come, and claim thy part thereof, — 

I have fashioned it for thee ! 



BETWEEN THE BATTLES 

LET us bury him here. 
Where the maples are red ! 
He is dead, 

And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall 
of the leaf and the year. 

Where the hillside is sheer, 
Let it echo our tread 
Whom he led ; 

Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who 
never knew fear. 

Ere he died they had fled ; 
Yet they heard his last cheer 
Ringing clear, — 

When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, 
but grew dizzy instead. 



340 A Treasury of 

Break his sword and his spear ! 
Let this last prayer be said 
By the bed 

We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple 
trees moaning so drear : 

"O Lord God, by the red 
Sullen end of the year 
That is here, 

We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords 
till his slayers be dead ! " 



From "A PRELUDE" 

O COVERING grasses ! O unchanging trees ! 
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind 
Come down upon you with such harmonies 

Only the giant hills can ever find ? 
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be ? 
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind, 

That falls at noontide over you and me ? 
O gleam of birches lost among the firs. 
Let your high treble chime in silverly 

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs 
A muffled organ-music from the pines ! 
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers 

Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines 
Till the young maples are no longer gray. 
And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines ; 

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day, 
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead. 
Until the sound of their far feet who stray 



Canadian Verse 341 

About the wood, fades from me ; and, instead, 
I hear a robin singing — not as one 
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted — 
But as one sings a welcome to the sun. 

A LITTLE WHILE BEFORE THE FALL 
WAS DONE 

A LITTLE while before the fall was done 
A day came when the frail year paused and said : 

" Behold ! a little while and I am dead ; 

Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?" 
Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun 

Shone always, and the roses all were red ; 

Far ojff the great sea slept, and overhead 

Among the robins matins had begun. 
And I knew not at all it was a dream 

Only, and that the year was near its close ; 

Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose, 
The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam 

Of all the unvext sea, a little space 

Were as a mist above the Autumn's face. 



GOLDWIN SMITH 

FLOSSY (WITH HER OWN PORTRAIT) 
TO HER MISTRESS 

ON HER WEDDING DAY 

OF all the tiny race of Skye, 
The prettiest, so friends say, am I ; 
My name is Flossy, well-bestowed, 
A silkier coat Skye never shewed ! 
With sable back, and silver head. 
Blue bow, and feathery paws outspread. 
As on my crimson rug I lie, 
What fairer sight for painter's eye ? 



34^ A Treasury of 

Short are my legs, yet mark my pace 

Whene'er I cats or postmen chase ! 

In human language if I fail. 

What so expressive as my tail ? 

See how it wags, as if to say, 

" Dear mistress, a glad wedding day ! " 

Though bounded is my being's range. 

And knows no world beyond The Grange- 

A universe by half-a-span 

Less than the universe of man — 

Yet am I Queen of all I see. 

The household are but slaves to me. 

Let others toil the livelong day, 

I play and sleep, and sleep and play ; 

Or in my carriage proudly ride 

With two fair ladies at my side. 

Gaily I live, by all caressed, 

And in a doting mistress blessed ! 

Affection's happiness I prove, 

And see no fault in those I love ; 

Nor when my little bones are laid 

Beneath the turf on which I played, 

Nor when the rug which now I press 

Each winter's eve is Flossieless, 

Shall Flossy die ; but pictured here 

To her loved mistress still be dear. 



LYMAN C. SMITH 
CANADA TO COLUMBIA 

O ELDER sister, though thou didst of yore 
Forsake thy mother's ancient hall and flee 
To be the chosen bride of Liberty, 
She cherishes her grief and wrath no more. 
Nor seeks her broken circle to restore, 
Yet fain would clasp thee to her breast again. 
But thou aloof uncertain dost remain. 



Canadian Verse 343 

O canst thou not the one mistake forget 
Of her that bore thee, taught thy Hps to frame 
Thy early words, thy God in prayer to name ; 
That in the paths of right and justice set 
Thy feet, where not infrequent walk they yet ; 
That stood devoted at thy youthful side. 
Nor e'en her blood in thy defence denied ? 

But if thy younger sister yet abide 
Content and happy in her mother's hall, 
Nor feel the bond of blood a menial thrall, 
But, leaning heart to heart, of choice confide 
In mother yet as dearest guard and guide — 
If thou wilt not thy mother's love regain. 
Why must thy cradle sister plead in vain ? 

Yet all the best that bubbles in our veins 
We sisters drew from that one Saxon breast. 
Where oftentimes thy maiden cheek has pressed. 
Mine resting still in loving trust remains. 
Our bonds of blood should be unbroken chains ! 
Obey thy heart and grasp the proffered hand. 
Then all the world our wills may not withstand. 



From "A DAY WITH HOMER" 

METHOUGHT the stream of Time had back- 
ward rolled. 
And I was standing on the fruitful plain 
That lay between the sea and ancient Troy. 
I saw one standing on the curving beach 
Whose hoary locks were playthings for the wind 
That freshening came across the swelling waves. 
I listened to the mystic music of a voice 
That chanted to their measured beat, in tones 
Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves. 
Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves, 
Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms. 



344 A Treasury of 

There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet 
Are swift to chase at early dawn, across 
The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls 
By winged shaft shot from her sounding bow ; 
And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove, 
With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow, 
Mirth-lighted eye and soft-caressing hand ; — 
Love, fairest form that ever found a home 
On earth, or in the golden halls of heaven. 



WILLIAM WYE SMITH 
THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE 

O, THE East is but the West, with the sun a Httle 
hotter ; 
And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian 

water ; 
And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills 

its brimming cup ; 
We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up ! 
Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the 
top. 

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian 
river ; 

But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sun- 
beams quiver ; 

And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on 
either hand ; 

But strong we bend the sturdy oar towards the 
Southern land ! 
Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the 
top! 



Canadian Verse 345 

O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a 

portage crossing ; , , i wi 

And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the 

waves are tossing ! , , , 

Then it's homeward when the run is o er ! o er stream 

and ocean deep — 
To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple 

shadows sleep ! 
Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the 

top! 

And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands 

so ready . . ^ 

May be sought again to help when some poise is ott 

the steady ! 
And the Maple and the Pine be matched with British 

Oak the while, 
As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the 

Nile! 
Pull, pull, pull ! as we track the batteaux up ! 
It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the 

top! 



ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE 

THE FORGOTTEN POET 

TTH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud, 
, . The little song I sing with so much care, 
Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood 
Of days that will forget my song was fair. 
The master-song is mighty rushing wind 

Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath 
From cloudland, and the climes that wm tlic mmd, 
And full of pulses to awaken death. 



w 



346 A Treasury of 

Full well I know the storm will smite my flower, 
My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod ; 
But when my flower and I have lived an hour 

I'll bear it on the wind away to God ; 

And wind and flower and spirit may adorn 
Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born. 



DEATH THE REVEALER 

I KNOW that death is God's interpreter : 
His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear 
In grievous things that vex us deeply here 
Between the cradle and the sepulchre. 

We, gazing into darkness, greatly err. 
And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear 
Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer 
With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. 

There is a mystery I cannot read 

Around the mastery I no more dread ; 
For love is but a heart to brood and bleed, 

And life is but a dream among the dead 

Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me 

heed 
Till the day break and shadows all be fled ! 



HIRAM LADD SPENCER 

THE RIVER 

BY cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray 
With weariness and sorrow, 
Awhile I pause, and then away. 
And in the wild and restless Bay 
I lose myself to-morrow. 



Canadian Verse 347 

I turn the wheels of many mills. 

By many islands dally ; 
I gossip with the daffodils, 
And to my bosom take the rills 

That from the woodlands sally. 

I love the songs that childhood sings — 
Its smiles and roguish glances, — 

A picture paint of many things 

That o'er the mind a halo flings 
As onward time advances. 



I listen to the tender chime 

Of city bells a-swaying : 
O dower of youth ! O wealth of time ! 
O pleasant dreams ! O hopes sublime, 

When all the world's a-swaying ! 

By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray 

With weariness and sorrow, 

Awhile I pause, and then away, 

Like you who loiter here to-day, 

And lose myself to-morrow. 



A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME 

WHERE, where will be the birds that sing, 
A hundred years to come ?^ 
The flowers that now in beauty spring, 
A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy cheek, 

The lofty brow. 
The heart that beats 
So gaily now : 
Where, where will be our hopes and fears, 
Joy's pleasant smiles and Sorrow's tears, 
A hundred years to come ? 



34^ A Treasury of 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who'll tread yon aisles with willing feet, 
A hundred years to come ? 
Pale, trembling Age, 

And fiery Youth, 

And Childhood with 

Its brow of truth ; 

The rich, the poor, on land and sea, 

Where will the mighty millions be, 

A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves will sleep, 

A hundred years to come ; 
No living soul for us will weep, 
A hundred years to come ; 
But other men 

Our homes will fill. 
And others then 
Our lands will till, 
And other birds will sing as gay, 
And bright the sunshine as to-day, 
A hundred years to come. 



EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD 

CHINOOK 

{Af Stampede Pass) 

MILDLY through the mists of night 
Floats a breath of flowers s^eet. 
Warmly through the waning light 
Wafts a wind with perfumed feet, 
Down the gorge and mountain brook. 
With the sound of wings — Chinook ! 



Canadian Verse 349 

By no trail his spirits go, 
Through the mountain passes high, 
Where the moon is on the snow 
And the screaming eagles fly, 
Where the yawning canyon roars 
With memories of misty shores. 

On still prairies, mountain-locked. 
Frost lies white upon the grass, 
But where the witch of winter walked. 
Now the summer's masquers pass ; 
And at May's refreshing breath 
Tender flowers rose from death. 

And the breeze, that on the Coast 

Wakened softly at the morn, 

Is on snowy prairies lost 

When the twilight pales forlorn ; 

Sweet Chinook ! who breathes betimes 

Summer's kiss in winter climes. 

THE STRANGE VESSEL 

{Quebec, 1759) 

ND no one saw, while it was dark, 
The outline of a sweeping barque. 
Without a flag or light ; 
And no one counted, one by one. 
Along her decks each silent gun. 
That glimmered through the night. 

And far above the water's swell. 
Upon a guarded citadel, 

Arose the laugh of men ; 
But some upon the ramparts there 
Felt Evil hurrying through the air, 

And never laughed again. 



A 



350 A Treasury of 

The creak of sail, the splash of oar, 
Were heard by none upon the shore ; 

And in the forest vale 
None knew the ambush that was kept, 
Nor saw a thousand men who crept 

Along the narrow trail. 

When day at last was breaking forth 
There came two eagles flying north, 

And on the morn awoke 
The solemn pageantry of war, 
And o'er the shining hills afar 

Floated the rolling smoke. 



THE LAST ORISON 

C HAPER of breathing lives, and Lord of all above, 
*^ Thy name I learned beside my mother's knee ; 
She drew me to her arms, and said that Thou wert 
Love — 
Oh, art Thou Love to me ? 

I cannot rear my thoughts amid the golden spheres, 
Where roll the stars about Thy throne on high. 

But here in lowly wise I call on Thee with tears. 
And feel Thy presence nigh. 

Childlike to Thee I looked when came the night of 
fear. 
On Thee I laid my sorrows of the day ; 
The whole earth spake of One who seemed to be so 
near. 
It was not hard to pray. 

The bolted doors that lock the corridors of Time, 

And bar the awful avenues of Space, 
My soul at last shall pass, and then, O dream sublime ! 

I shall gaze on Thy face. 



Canadian Verse 351 

ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART 

From "THE WANDERER 

ADIEU to these !— Niagara, thy roar 
Is as the voice of freedom sounding far, 
And thundering Liberty to either shore, 
With boom that puts to shame the breath of war. 
The clouds which hover softly o'er thee are 
SymboHcal of peace ; while thou, fierce flood, 
Hast all the fury of a plunging star, 
Churning its liquid flames to foaming blood. 
And overturning worlds that have for ages stood. 

Forever pour thy dashing speed along 

Between the homes of Freedom and the Free ; 

And chant forever thy resounding song 

To hearts that may re-echo liberty. 

The first who dares destroy thy purity, 

Or bridge thee for enslavers, may thy roar 

Cease hke a thunderbolt, and o'er thy sea 

The chill of horror fall and wrap him o'er. 

Dry up thy foaming flood and be thy voice no more 



PHILLIPS STEWART 
HOPE 



N shadowy calm the boat 
Sleeps by the dreaming oar, 
The green hills are afloat 
Beside the silver shore. 



I 



Youth hoists the white-winged sail. 
Love takes the longing oar— 

The oft-told fairy tale 
Beside the silver shore. 



352 A Treasury of 

Soft lip to lip, and heart 

To heart, and hand to hand, 

And wistful eyes depart 
Unto another strand. 



And lovely as a star 

They tremble o'er the wave, 
With eager wings afar, 

Unto the joys they crave. 

In a sweet trance they fare 
Unto the wind and rain. 

With wind-tossed waves of hair, 
And ne'er return again. 

And at the drifting side. 
Changed faces in the deep 

They see, a changing tide. 
Like phantoms in a sleep. 

Slow hands furl the torn sail 
Without one silver-gleam. 

And, sad and wan and pale. 
They gaze into a dream. 



Fro7n " CORYDON AND AMARYLLIS " 

PALE MELANCHOLY, faithfully thou lov'st 
The human soul when youth and passion fail ; 
How precious all things grow beneath thy smile ! 
Sad sister of the poet's lonely hours, 
Thy clinging arms embrace us all, thy feet 
Are in all paths, and Nature saddens 'neath 
Thine eyes. The lotus and the poppy have 
Thee in their dreamy veins ; thine image dwells 
For ever in the jewelled wine ; thou art 
The hungry beauty of Love's crescent eyes, 



Canadian Verse 353 

The tremor of white hands, the ashy gleam 
Of noble brows, and thou dost startle Love's 
Young dream into a dying swoon, and strew 
A flowery sadness on some new-made grave. 



From "DE PROFUNDIS" 

I HEAR the wondrous lyre 
Of the blind bard, and see the Grecian throng 
About Troy's lofty walls, and Hector slain, 
The white-stained face and blackened crest, 
And great Achilles crumbling on his pyre. 
Then comes Ulysses sighing for his home 
Afar, leaving the ruins of old Troy 
For Ithaca, where oft, a glad-faced boy, 
He played amid the ripening vines and heard 
His father's voice ere he began to roam 
The weary waves. His heart is stirred 
With thoughts of home, and son, and wife, 
And ever Circe holds him in her arms. 
How have I longed to drift on some fair isle, 
Like thee, from feverish alarms, 
And voices of reproach, and earth's vain strife — 
Some urnless land beyond the wile 
Of grief and gold, where man can quite forget 
All pain, and sleep and dream not of regret. 



BARRY STRATON 

LOVE'S HARVEST 

THE furrows of life Time is plowing, 
But we mourn not the Spring which departs, 
For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing, 
Scattered love in the soil of our hearts. 
z 



354 A Treasury of 

The sunshine of virtue and beauty 

Shall wake the sweet seedhngs to bloom 

The warm dews of mercy and duty 
Shall moisten the tractable loam. 

Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding ! 

Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill ! 
'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding. 

But a short, pleasant way from the mill. 

But fondness and faith will be growing, 
Be the sky clear or cloudy above. 

When fortune is ripe to the mowing 
We shall gather our harvest of love ! 



CHARITY 

COME ! walk with the world and go down to the 
destitute homes of the poor. 
Where weeping is louder than laughter, where sorrow 

and famine abide ; 
Where Azrael reaps a full harvest and darkens each 

desolate door ; 
And learn of the lowly and meek to lessen your 
thoughtless pride. 

I have seen my Lady flash by — a beauteous vision 

of ease ; 
I have seen the widow at work till the shadows of 

night fled the day ; 
I have seen God's poor drink the cup of sorrow and 

toil to the lees ; 
I have seen the wicked get wealth, and the good go 

empty away. 

" The poor are unworthy, and sinning is found in the 

homes of the low. 
If we give we but pander to vice : the beggars our 

gifts will abuse." 



Canadian Verse 355 

So say you, and pass in your pride, but your heart 

cries out as you go, 
" The vile are the first to ape virtue ; the wicked the 

first to accuse ! " 

Communist ? Not I ! But I hold that the miser who 

hugs to his heart 
What for him is but clay and a curse, but to some 

would be blessing and bread. 
Is selling his merciful Saviour. Better throw down 

the price and depart ; 
Better, belike, do as Judas, put a rope to his miserable 

head. 

'T would be well with you, Midas, to pity the poor 

who are tarrying here. 
They may count to your just condemnation the tears 

which their hungry babes weep. 
Though you harden your heart for a lifetime, and turn 

an adamant ear. 
Their wails may pierce through to your coffin and 

trouble your long, last sleep. 

How read you the Scriptures ? What say they ? 

"These three with the world now abide, 
Hope, charity, faith, and the greatest is charity — 

blessed above all." 
Our hands should be fruitful and open ; the field for 

our giving is wide, 
And blessing shall follow the gifts, though the power 

to give may be small. 

Then time may toil on with its tumults, its troubles 

and tempests of tears ; 
The sweet, voiceless shadows shall hold us till striving 

and sorrow are past. 
We shall wake full refreshed to the judgment, though 

we slumber for eons of years ; 
And the Lord shall shew us His glory, we shall be 

like to God at the last. 



35^ A Treasury of 

AMERICA 

COLUMBUS came to thee and called thee new ! 
New World to him, but thy rich blood, bright 
gold. 
Lay cold where once the fires manifold 
Raged fiercely. New ? Primeval forests grew, 
Had fallen, and were coal ! Thine eagles flew 
Undaunted then as now, and where the bold 
South Rocky Mountains rise in fold on fold 
The Aztec to his God the victim slew. 
The tropic verdure of thy far north world 
Had passed forever, moon-like fading out. 
Sky-piercing mounts have reared them from the seas — 
The lost Atlantis has been depth-ward hurled. 
Since thou wert new ! — Old ! all thy landmarks shout, 
And bid us read thy waiting mysteries. 



ARTHUR J. STRINGER 

A SONG IN AUTUMN 

OLOVE, can the tree lure the summer bird 
Again to the bough where it used to sing. 
When never a throat in the autumn is heard. 
And never the glint of a vagrant wing ? 

Love, Love, can the lute lure the old-time touch 

Unto fingers forgetful of melody ? 
And we, who have loved for a time overmuch. 

Bring back the old life as it used to be ? 

Nay, though there is little in me to love, 

Come back as the bird to a songless bough : 

Back now as you came when the blue was above. 

And summer gleamed soft on your girlish brow. 



Canadian Verse ZS7 

Come home, O Heart, for the autumn is grey. 

And I, who have looked for your coming so long, 

En-isled in your arms, in the old lost way 

Shall dream our December estranged by a song. 

So come, Vernal-Heart, now summer is flown ; 

Let autumn elude the return of the rime. 
And the sad sea change with the season alone : 

Not us who have loved — loved well in our time. 



Shall summer not know the autumnal touch ? 

Shall love when forlorn of the spring be green ? 
Or we, who were lovers of old overmuch. 

Regain what is lost, or relume what has been ? 



BESIDE THE MARTYR'S MEMORIAL 
(Oxford) 

THEIR very gods, it seems, we have forgot ; 
And drawing back the riven veil once more, 
Too late we learn that theirs the happier lot 
Who had their foolish gods to perish for. 

CANADA TO ENGLAND 

SANG one of England in his island home : 
" Her veins are million, but her heart is one ;" 
And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle 
To us who dwell beyond its western sun. 

And we among the northland plains and lakes, 
We youthful dwellers on a younger land, 

Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste. 

And feel the clasp of England's outstretched hand. 



358 A Treasury of 

For we are they who wandered far from home 
To swell the glory of an ancient name ; 

Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, 
When fortune's twilight to our island came. 

But every keel that cleaves the midway waste 
Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, 

Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, 
And England mingles with a hundred lands. 

And weaving silently all far-off shores 

A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, 
Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths. 

Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. 

So we remote compatriots reply, 

And feel the world-task only half begun : 

" We are the girders of the ageing earth, 

Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one." 



BEETHOVEN 

HE wandered down, an Orpheus wilder-souled, 
From some melodious world of love and song, 
And through our earthly vales strange music rolled. 
Who heard that alien note could only long, 
As pale Eurydice once longed, to know again 
The happier ways, the more harmonious air, 
Where once they heard that half-remembered strain, — 
Where once their exiled feet were wont to fare. 
A gleam of some strange golden life now gone, 
A sad remembrance of celestial things, 
Some old-time glory, like the gods', outshone 
From men's rapt souls, wherein a memory clings 
Of that diviner day, from them withdrawn. 
For all the dreams that smouldered in man's breast, 
And all the clearer ways he yearned to reach, — 
The fugitive ideal, the old unrest, — 
Found utterance in song, that slept in speech. 



Canadian Verse 359 

And like a minstrel in an alien land, 

Who sings his native strains while men crowd round 

And hearken long, but cannot understand, 

He sang to us, and through the unknown sound 

We caught a passing glimmer of the soul 

Those foreign runes concealed, and strove to glean 

From out the uninterpretable whole 

Some earthlier harmony. 

It must have been 
He heard far-off thtit low uranian strain 
That only maddens him who vainly hears ; 
For they, the gods, soon saw the god-like pain 
That mocked a man, and closed his listening ears. 



ALAN SULLIVAN 
VENICE 

IF you would see Venice as she is, 
Wander by night in silence and alone 
Among her towers and sculptured palaces, 

And read the story she has writ in stone ; 
Then, as you read, she will upon you cast 
The fascination of her wondrous past. 

Muse on, and let the silent gondolier 

Wind at his will 'mid tortuous, twisting ways 

And broad lagoons, with waters wide and clear. 
On whose unruffled breast the moonbeam plays ; 

And move not, speak not, for the mystery 

Of Venice is with you on the sea. 

Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes 

Of old Saint Mark's ; watch how the glittering height 

Soars in quick curves ; see how each sunbeam roams 
And fills the nave with soft pure amber light ; 



360 A Treasury of 

This is the heart of Venice, and the tomb 
Which folds her story in its sacred gloom. 

So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells, 

By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars, 

Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells, 

Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars ; 

The only sound when whispering waters glide 

In on the bosom of a sluggish tide. 

Then turn again into her solitudes, — 

Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke, — 
Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods, 

Let memory fall upon you like a cloak : 
Venice will rise around you as of old, 
Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold. 

But that was years ago; to-day the notes 

Of wild free song have left her silver streets ; 

Her blazoned banner now no longer floats 
In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets ; 

She lives but in a past so strong and brave 

It serves alike for monument and grave. 



THE WHITE CANOE 

THERE'S a whisper of life in the gray dead trees, 
And a murmuring wash on the shore. 
And a breath of the south in the loitering breeze. 

To tell that a winter is o'er. 
While, free at last from its fetters of ice, 

The river is clear and blue. 
And cries with a tremulous, quivering voice 
For the launch of the White Canoe. 

Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side, 

And tenderly bear her on ; 
For she is the wandering phantom bride 

Of the river she rests upon ; 



Canadian Verse 361 

She is loved with a love than cannot forget, 

A passion so strong and true 
That never a billow has risen yet 

To peril the White Canoe. 

So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky, 

And the echoes are sweet and low, 
And Nature is full of the mystery 

That none but her children know. 
Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave, 

But is only revealed to a few : 
When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the 
wave, 

Afloat in the White Canoe. 



BERTRAM TENNYSON 
GORDON 

SON of Britannia's isle, 
There by the storied Nile, 
The dust has claimed him e'er his work was done ; 
But not for that alone 
Has Fame's clear trumpet blown 
Most mournful music o'er her bravest son. 
Alas ! for England, when the dead 
Fell by a coward's hand her honor fled ! 

No English squadrons broke 

Through the thick batde smoke. 

At that last hour when the hero fell ; 

He hoped to see again 

(But ah ! that hope was vain) 

Those English colors he had served so well ; 

He fell, forsaken, undismayed, 

True to the land that thus his trust betrayed. 



362 A Treasury of 

His was the hardest part, 

That tries the staunchest heart ; 

Better the headlong charge when hundreds die, 

Than the relentless foe 

Watching to strike the blow. 

And the slow waiting while the bullets fly — 

No friends, no hope, but, like a star. 

High duty shining through the clouds of war. 

No stately Gothic fane 

Roofs in the hero slain, 

But the wide sky above the desert sands ; 

No graven stone shall tell 

Where at the last he fell. 

And, if interred at all, by alien hands, — 

Thrust in a shallow grave to wait 

The last loud summons to the fallen great. 

No more can England boast 

Her name from coast to coast 

Shall be a passport to her wandering sons ; 

Once they could freely roam, 

As in their Island home, 

Safe far abroad as underneath her guns ; 

Or, should mishap for vengeance call. 

Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall. 

But let the meed of blame 

Fall with its weight of shame 

On those who lacked the courage to command ; 

The heart of England beats 

In London's thronging streets. 

And in the quiet places of the land, 

Still to its old traditions true, 

In spite of all our rulers failed to do. 



Canadian Verse 363 

EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON 
A DAY-DREAM 

WHEN, high above the busy street, 
Some hidden voice poured Mary's song. 
Oh, then my soul forgot the heat 
And roaring of the city's throng : 
Then London bells and cries fell low, 
Blent to a far and murmured tone 
That changed and chimed in mystic flow. 
Weaving a spell for me alone. 

No more the towering blocks were there, 
No longer pressed the crowds around : 
All freely roamed a magic air 
Within what vast horizon's bound : 
Beneath a sky of lucent gray 
Far stretched my circled northern plain, 
Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay. 
And one dear Autumn came again. 

Before me trod a winsome maid, 
And oh, the mien with which she stept ! 
Her soft brown hair, without a braid, 
Hiding the shoulders where it swept ; 
And glancing backward now she gave 
To me the smile so true and wise. 
The radiant look from eyes so grave 
That spoke her inmost Paradise. 

Divinely on my daughter went. 
The wild flowers leaning from her tread ; 
Dreaming she lived, I watched intent 
Till, ah, the gracious vision fled ; 
The plain gave place to blocks of grey. 
The sunlit heaven to murky cloud — 
Staring I stood in common day. 
And never knew the street so loud. 



364 A Treasury of 



THE SONG-SPARROW 

WHEN plowmen ridge the steamy brown, 
And yearning meadows sprout to green, 
And all the spires and towers of town 
Blent soft with wavering mists are seen : 
When quickened woods in freshening hue 
Along Mount Royal billowy swell, 
When airs caress and May is new, 
Oh, then my shy bird sings so well ! 

Because the blood-roots flock in white. 
And blossomed branches scent the air, 
And mounds with trillium flags are dight. 
And myriad dells of violets rare ; 
Because such velvet leaves unclose, 
And newborn rills all chiming ring. 
And blue the dear St Lawrence flows — 
My timid bird is forced to sing. 

A joyful flourish lilted clear, — 
Four notes — then fails the frolic song, 
And memories of a vanished year 
The wistful cadences prolong : 
" A vanished year — O, heart too sore — 
I cannot sing ; " thus ends the lay : 
Long silence, then awakes once more 
His song, ecstatic of the May ! 



THE BAD YEAR 

MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June 
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping 
leaves. 
And arid Summer wilted these full soon. 
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves ; 
Plaintive October saddened for the year. 
But wild November raged that hope was past, 



Canadian Verse 365 

Shrieking, " All days of life are made how drear — 
Mad whirl of snow ! and Death comes driving fast." 
Yet sane December, when the winds fell low, 
And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear, 
Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago, 
And meditated in a mind sincere : — 

" Beneath these snows shining from yon red west 
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May, 
And June shall riot, lovely as the best 
That flung their odors forth on all their way : 
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath, 
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air. 
Her gentle colors" — sane December saith 
"They come, they come— O heart, sigh not 'They 
were.'" 



JOHN STUART THOMSON 

THE VALE OF ESTABELLE 

THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep 
into the dell. 
The little time-stained headstones in the vale of 
Estabelle. 

I often looked across them when I lounged upon the 

hill; 
I never walked among them, nor could cross the 

moody rill. 

I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face, 
And feared at night to meet their ghosts hauntmg a 
lonely place. 

The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, 

dismal toll ; 
The aged by the cranny heard, and sighed : " How 

grows Death's roll ! " 



366 A Treasury of 

Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note 
of spring ; 

But seasons through I never heard a bird in grave- 
yard sing. 

A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at 

eve 
Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon 

his sleeve. 

The church was old ; its tower bold, and dust be- 

dimmed the panes ; 
The preacher ever paused a while when fell the 

autumn rains. 

The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear 

upon them came ; 
"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not 

bhnd or lame." 

They often asked me why it was I shunned the head- 
stones so ; 

" I fear them not," I said, " to some new grave with 
you I'll go." 

I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and 

sleep ; 
I'd walk behind, — he was so old, — there'd be no 

need to weep. 

The morrow morn came darkly ; there was awe with- 
in the town ; 

Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty 
Alice Brown." 

Oh ! 'tis not she of hazel eyes ; of plaited golden hair ; 
Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven 
on my care ! 



Canadian Verse 367 

Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and 

tender sigh. 
That kissed the rose aswoon : tell me, did God let 

Alice die? 

"The third day past came darkly; there was awe 

within the town ; 
They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty 

Alice Brown." 

I linger in the village still ; I cannot go away ; 
I walk the ways alone at eve ; sometimes I pause 
and pray ; — 

It is not much I say of her ; I say it very low ; 
But somehow it is sweet to think, " Perhaps the spirits 
know." 

One house there is I never pass ; one way I never 

look; 
I never climb the hill at eve ; I never cross the 

brook ; 

But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone. 
Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the 
most: "Alone." 

They hide within the hollows and they creep into the 

dell. 
Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of 

Estabelle. 

EVEN-TIME 

IN meadows deep with hay, I see 
The reapers' steel flash sparklingly ; 
And bobolinks at play ; — 
And in the iris-bordered coves 
Frail lilies, shaded by the groves, 
Moor all the golden day. 



368 A Treasury of 

I watch the flicker rise on sun-ht wings 

High where a pewee sings, — 

Apollo's messenger 
To the lone piper of the fir. 
Where rolling western hills look like 
Waves of aerial seas, the sunsets strike ; 

And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. 

Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled 
On through the high star-spangled doors, 

To Night's dark murmurous shores. 



LATE AUTUMN 

BEHOLD ! the maize fields set their pennons 
free, 

In this rich golden ending of the year ; 

And asters bloom upon the sunny lea. 
Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. 
Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head 

Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells. 
And cardinals ring out a richer chime ;- — 
A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells 

A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead 
Is all the clover on its fragrant bed ; — 
And bloomless rose vines o'er the trelUs climb. 



Sometimes across the still and cheerless night, 
The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, 
As to the warm savannahs they take flight, 

Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. 

And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss. 
Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land ; 

Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played 

By tearful maidens of a funeral band. 
Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left 

But that to wound the memory ; bereft 

Is he who wanders in this barren glade. 



Canadian Verse 369 

No more I linger in the Lydian wood, 

And wait Silenos by each dell and spring ; 

No more the gloaming seems or warm or good 
When everything of joy has taken wing. 
I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain ; 

I walk an endless hne of cypress shade ; 
I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, 
When everything of loveliness light made 

Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain, 
That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, 
And leaves the dying world in piteous blight. 

The reaper Winter cometh on apace. 

And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod, 
And parsley wild of timid peaceful face, — 

Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod. 

The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf 

From the poor bough that treasured it in hope ; — 

The chilling mists unroll their purple folds. 

Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope, 
Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief, 

Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf, 

And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds. 



FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS 

From "THE WATER ULY" 

THEN sighed the Wandering Angel sore, 
And turned one lingering look, and last, 
Upon the dead ; and, rising o'er 

The lake, the groves, the dell, he i)assed 
On sailing pinions, broad and bright, 
Along the footsteps of the night, 
And down the pathway of the wind, 

Until he faded westward far,— 
A glory in the deep enshrined, 
2 A 



370 A Treasury of 

The brother of the morning star — 
And dropt upon the burning bar 
Of the horizon, and passed on 
Under its shadow, and was gone. 

And loud and shrilly sang the lark ; 

And lovely waxed the risen day. 
And laughed through every dewy spark 

That on the groves and meadows lay ; 
And all the level leas o'erflowed 
With light ; and all the copses glowed 
Throughout ; and over every slope 
Trembled a glory, like the hope 
Of future summers, seen through tears 
Of autumn, down the rolling years ; 
And from the bosom of the brook 
A thousand happy memories shook ; 
And on the still and smiling lake 
The lingering lilies seemed to wake 
Once more into their bygone bloom. 
And breathed a soul of fresh perfume : 
And all the sombre cypress lit 
In the light shaking over it ; 
And even the hoary willow took 
A smile from Nature's happy look. 



ARTHUR WEIR 
A SNOWSHOE SONG 

HILLOO, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! 
Gather, gather ye men in white ; 
The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright. 
The sparkling snow lies firm and white : 
Tie on the shoes, no time to lose. 
We must be over the hill to-night. 



Canadian Verse 371 

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! 

Swiftly in single file we go, 

The city is soon left far below : 

Its countless lights like diamonds glow, 

And as we climb we hear the chime 

Of church bells stealing o'er the snow. 

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! 
Like winding sheet about the dead 
O'er hill and dale the snow is spread. 
And silences our hurried tread. 
The pines bend low, and to and fro 
The maples toss their boughs o'erhead. 

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! 
We laugh to scorn the angry blast, 
The mountain top is gained and past. 
Descent begins, 'tis ever fast, — 
A short quick run, and toil is done. 
We reach the welcome inn at last. 



Shake off, shake off the clinging snow, 
Unloose the shoe, the sash untie. 
Fling tuque and mittens lightly by. 
The chimney fire is blazing high. 
And, richly stored, the festive board 
Awaits the merry company. 

Remove the fragments of the feast ! 
The steaming coffee, waiter, bring. 
Now tell the tale, the chorus sing, 
And let the laughter loudly ring. 
Here's to our host, come drink the toast. 
Then up ! for time is on the wing. 

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo ! 
The moon is sinking out of sight, 



372 A Treasury of 

Across the sky dark clouds take flight, 
And dimly looms the mountain height. 
Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, 
We must be home again to-night. 



VOYAGEUR SONG 

OUR mother is the good green earth. 
Our rest her bosom broad ; 
And sure, in plenty and in dearth, 

Of our six feet of sod. 
We welcome Fate with careless mirth 

And dangerous paths have trod. 
Holding our lives of httle worth 
And fearing none but God. 

Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide 

Above the fretted sand, 
Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide 

Swift through the silent land ; 
Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide 

Rocks rise on every hand. 
Our path will we confess denied, 

Nor cowardly seek the strand. 

The foam may leap like frightened cloud 

That hears the tempest scream, 
The waves may fold their whitened shroud 

Where ghastly ledges gleam ; 
With muscles strained and backs well bowed, 

And poles that breaking seem. 
We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud 

Itself our lord did deem. 

The broad traverse is cold and deep, 

And treacherous smiles it hath, 
And with its sickle of death doth reap 

With woe for aftermath ; 



Canadian Verse ^J2> 

But though the wind-vexed waves may leap, 

Like cougars, in our path, 
Still forward on our way we keep, 

Nor heed their futile wrath. 

Where glitter trackless wastes of snow 

Beneath the northern light, 
On netted shoes we noiseless go, 

Nor heed though keen winds bite. 
The shaggy bears our prowess know, 

The white fox fears our might, 
And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow. 

With angry snarls take flight. 

Where forest fastnesses extend, 

Ne'er trod by man before. 
Where cries of loon and wild duck blend 

With some dark torrent's roar. 
And timid deer, unawed, descend 

Along the lake's still shore, 
We blaze the trees and onward wend 

To ravish nature's store. 

Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve 

These calls the echoes wake. 
We rise and forward fare, nor grieve 

Though long portage we make. 
Until the sky the sun-gleams leave 

And shadows cowl the lake ; 
And then we rest and fancies weave 

For wife or sweetheart's sake. 



THE LITTLE TROOPER 

SWIFT troopers twain ride side by side 
Throughout life's long campaign. 
They make a jest of all man's pride, 
And oh, the havoc ! As they ride, 
They cannot count their slain. 



374 A Treasury of 

The one is young and debonair, 

And laughing swings his blade. 
The zephyrs toss his golden hair, 
His eyes are blue ; he is so fair 
He seems a masking maid. 



The other is a warrior grim, 
Dark as a midnight stor n. 
There is no man can cope with him : 
We shrink and tremble in each limb 
Before his awful form. 



Yet though men fear the sombre foe 
More than the gold-tressed youth, 
The boy with every careless blow 
More than the trooper grim lays low, 
And causes earth more ruth. 



Keener his mocking word doth prove 

Than flame on winter's breath. 
Men bear his wounds to the realm above, 
For the little trooper's name is Love, 
His comrade's only Death. 



LITTLE MISS BLUE EYES 

LITTLE Miss Blue Eyes opens the door, 
" Nobody's in," says she. 
Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore 
Stolen my heart from me. 

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, 
"Will you come in?" says she. 

" Papa'll be back in an hour or more " ; — 
Blue Eyes has seen through me. 



Canadian Verse 375 

Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door, 

" Nobody's in," says she. 
(Would I might venture that threshold o'er 

Into its sanctity.) 

Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind, 

Keep me not at the door ; 
Into your love, from the cold and wind, 

Take me, dear, evermore. 

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door. 

Archly smiling at me : 
" Papa'll be back in an hour or more, 

Come in and wait," says she. 

A CHRISTMAS LULLABY 

THE restless clock is ticking out 
The hours that go before the dawn. 
And icy moonbeams dart about 

The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,— 
The lawn that Santa Claus must cross 
Ere he shall reach my baby's cot, — 
Ah ! who shall measure Bertie's loss 
Should Santa Claus come not ! 

Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; 

I hear the neighing of the steeds,— 
Good Santa Claus has just begun 
His round of kindly deeds. 

What has the little man for thee, 

My precious babe who slumb'rest there ? 
He brings, sweet one, a gift from me, 

A mother's love, a mother's care,— 
A mother's care that shall not wane, 

While hands can toil or brain can thmk, 
Until that day shall come again 

When thou shalt cross life's bnnk. 



'^']6 A Treasury of 

Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; 

I hear the neighing of the steeds,- 
Good Santa Claus has just begun 

His round of kindly deeds. 

He brings a cross, he brings a crown, 

And places them on either hand. 
Upon the cross thou must not frown, 

For some day thou shalt understand, — 
Shalt understand the preciousness 

That to the sombre cross pertains. 
And thou wilt hold the crown far less 
Than of the cross the pains. 

Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; 

• I hear the neighing of the steeds,- 
Good Santa Claus has just begun 
His round of kindly deeds. 

He brings the greatest gift of all 

In bringing thee this Christmas Day : 
The deathless love it doth recall 

Of Him who took thy sins away; 
And when no more thy mother's care 

Can guide thy footsteps, Baby Mine, 
Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere, 
By love of One divine. 

Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one ; 

I hear the neighing of the steeds, 
Good Santa Claus has just begun 
His round of kindly deeds. 



AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD 

THE HOUSE OF THE TREES 

OPE your doors and take me in, 
Spirit of the wood ; 
Wash me clean of dust and din. 
Clothe me in your mood. 



Canadian Verse i^^j 

Take me from the noisy light 

To the sunless peace, 
Where at midday standeth Night 

Signing Toil's release. 

All your dusky twilight stores 

To my senses give \ 
Take me in and lock the doors, 

Show me how to live. 

Lift your leafy roof for me. 

Part your yielding walls, 
Let me wander lingeringly 

Through your scented halls. 

Ope your doors and take me in. 

Spirit of the wood ; 
Take me — make me next of kin 

To your leafy brood. 



AT THE WINDOW 

HOW thick about the window of my life 
Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets : 
Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small 
strife. 
Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets. 

If 'mid this swarm of smallnesses remain 

A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye 

I note before my freckled window-pane 

The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky ? 

TO FEBRUARY 

O MASTER-BUILDER, blustering as you go 
About your giant work, transforming all 
The empty woods into a glittering hall, 
And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow 



S7^ A Treasury of 

As hard as iron under stubborn snow, — 

Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, 
And windy hollows drift to arches tall. 
There comes a might that shall your might o'er- 
throw. 

Build high your white and dazzling palaces. 
Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers. 
Storm with a loud and a portentous lip ; 

And April with a fragmentary breeze, 
And half a score of gentle, golden hours, 
Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship. 



THE HAY FIELD 

\A/ITH slender arms outstretching in the sun 

The grass lies dead ; 
The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one 

Frail, fallen head. 



Of baby creepings through the April day 

Where streamlets wend. 
Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May, 

This is the end. 

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew. 

No more they reach 
To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue 

A whispered speech. 

No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close 

Again to shield 
Some love-full little nest — a dainty house 

Hid in a field. 



Canadian Verse 379 

WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW 

OCTOBER 

LIKE gallant courtiers, the forest trees 
Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered 
gold; 
And, like a king in royal purple's fold. 
The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze. 
Forever burning, ever unconsumed, 

Eike the strange portent of the prophet's bush, 
The autumn flames amid a sacred hush ; 
The forest glory never brighter bloomed. 

Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere 
Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke 

Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer, 
The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak ; 

And gleam the apples through the orchard trees, 

Like golden fruit of the Hesperides. 

CLOUD CASTLES 

DID you see the snowy castle, 
Shining far off" in the air ? 
Did you mark its massy bulwarks, 
And its gleaming turrets fair ? 

Deep and broad seemed its foundations. 

Stable as the solid rock. 
Braving in their stern defiance 

Tempest roar and battle shock. 

And its huge and strong escarpment 

Rose sheer up into the sky, 
And above its sunset banners 

Streamed and waved right royally. 



380 A Treasury of 

Hark ! throughout that lordly castle 
Trumpets peal and lightnings glare, 

And the thunder's haughty challenge 
Shakes the wide domains of air. 

Now before the rushing tempest 
All its cloudy pillars bend, 

And the leven bolts of heaven 
Smite its bastions deep, and rend. 

And the castle sways and totters ; 

A vast breach is in its walls ; 
Now its turrets sink and crumble. 
And its lofty rampart falls. 

So I've seen a gorgeous castle, 

Built of hopes and visions bright, 
Sink and disappear for ever, 
Like a phantom of the night. 

O the gay and glorious castles ! 

How we build them up again 
But to see them melt and vanish 

As the clouds dissolve in rain. 

O my soul ! look thou up higher, 
Where the many mansions be, 

To that bright and glorious palace 
That thy Lord hath built for thee. 



R. WALTER WRIGHT 

EASTER MORN 



H 



USHED is the voice of scorn. 

Anew the world is born, — 
Sweet morn ! sweet morn ! 



Canadian Verse 381 

Sing songs so loud and clear 
That all the world must hear 
Their notes of cheer. 



White angels of surprise 
Whisper from morning skies, 

Arise ! Arise ! 
'Neath the lightning countenance 
Sleep men of sword and lance, 

In heavy trance. 
Broken the sceptic's seal, 
Backward the devils reel. 

The nations kneel. 

Christ bids the Old adieu, 
Christ lives the Ever-New, 
Faithful and True. 

Hushed is the voice of scorn. 
Anew the world is horn, — 

Sweet morn ! sweet morn ! 



A STILL SMALL VOICE 

IN the silence of the morning, through the softly- 
rising mist. 
As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst, 
Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could 
not but list : 

" Unto thyself be true ! " 

In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of 

voices loud, 
And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces 

thunder-browed. 
Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the 

crowd : 

♦' Be to thy brother true ! " 



382 A Treasury of 

In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had 

sunk to rest, 
When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire 

within my breast, 
Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of 

Christ confessed : 

" Unto thy God be true ! " 



G. F. W. 

SENSE AND SPIRIT 

THE bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair. 
The voice of the lover, the love-lighted eye. 
The music of birds as they move through the air. 
The bright glow of sunshine that tinges the sky, 
And scintillant dewdrops, the green of the grass — 
They will pass, they will pass, they will pass. 

But, glory of honor, the freedom of truth. 

The might of the spirit, the breath of our call, 

The soul of essentials, eternity's youth. 

The essence of beauty, the pith of them all. 

The that which did make them the powers unto me,- 
They shall be, they shall be, they shall be ! 



EVA ROSE YORK 

I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN 

I SHALL not pass this way again — 
Although it bordered be with flowers, 
Although I rest in fragrant bowers, 
And hear the singing 
Of song-birds winging 
To highest heaven their gladsome flight ; 
Though moons are full and stars are bright, 



Canadian Verse ^S;^ 

And winds and waves are softly sighing, 
While leafy trees make low replying ; 
Though voices clear in joyous strain 
Repeat a jubilant refrain ; 
Though rising suns their radiance throw 
On summer's green and winter's snow, 
In such rare splendor that my heart 
Would ache from scenes like these to part ; 

Though beauties heighten, 

And life-lights brighten, 
And joys proceed from every pain, — 
I shall not pass this way again. 



Then let me pluck the flowers that blow. 
And let me listen as I go 

To music rare 

That fills the air ; 

And let hereafter 

Songs and laughter 
Fill every pause along the way ; 
And to my spirit let me say : 
" O soul, be happy ; soon 'tis trod, 
The path made thus for thee by God. 
Be happy, thou, and bless His name 
By whom such marvellous beauty came." 
And let no chance by me be lost 
To kindness show at any cost. 
I shall not pass this way again. 
Then let me now relieve some pain, 
Remove some barrier from the road, 
Or brighten some one's heavy load ; 
A helping hand to this one lend, 
Then turn some other to befriend. 

O God, forgive 

That now I live 
As if I might, sometime, return 
To bless the weary ones that yearn 



384 A Treasury of 

For help and comfort every day, — 
For there be such along the way. 

God, forgive that I have seen 
The beauty only, have not been 
Awake to sorrow such as this ; 
That 1 have drunk the cup of bliss 
Remembering not that those there be 
Who drink the dregs of misery. 

1 love the beauty of the scene, 
Would roam again o'er fields so green ; 
But since I may not, let me spend 
My strength for others to the end, — 
For those who tread on rock and stone. 
And bear their burdens all alone, 
Who loiter not in leafy bowers. 

Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers. 
A larger kindness give to me, 
A deeper love and sympathy ; 

Then, O, one day 

May someone say — 
Remembering a lessened pain — 
" Would she could pass this way again ! " 



PAMELIA VINING YULE 
THE BEAUTIFUL ARTIST 

THERE'S a beautiful Artist abroad in the world. 
And her pencil is dipped in heaven, — 
The gorgeous hues of Italian skies, 
The radiant sunset's richest dyes, 
The light of Aurora's laughing eyes, 
Are each to her pictures given. 

As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time 
The sunset was fairest to see, 



Canadian Verse 3^5 

I saw her wonderful brush had been 
Over a maple tree— half of it green— 
And the fairest coloring that ever was seen 
She had left on that maple tree. 

There was red of every possible hue, 

There was yellow of every dye, 
From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright, 
Fluttering, waving, flashing in light. 
With the delicate green leaves still in sight, 

Peeping out at the sunset sky. 

She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing 
In a bright new suit was dressed ; 

Very queer, indeed, it looked to me, 

The sober old beech tree thus to see, 

So different from what he used to be, 
Rigged out in a holiday vest. 

Red, and russet, and green, and grey- 
He had little indeed of gold— 

For the beech was never known to be gay, 

Being noted a very grave tree alway. 

Never flaunting out in a fanciful way 
Like other trees, we are told. 

But the beautiful artist had touched him off 

With an extra tint or so ; 
And he held his own very well with the rest. 
On which, I am sure, she had done her best. 
Dressing each in the fairest kind of a vest, 

Till the forest was all aglow. 

There were the willow that grew by the brook, 

And the old oak on the hill. 
The graceful elm tree down in the swale. 
The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale. 
The orchard trees clustering over the vale. 

And weeds that fringed the rill. 

2 B 



386 A Treasury of Canadian Verse 

One she had gilt with a flood of gold, 
And one she had tipped with flame ; 

One, she had dashed with every hue 

That the laughing sunset ever knew, 

And one — she had colored it through and through 
Russet, all sober and tame. 

Now this beautiful artist will only stay 

A very few days, and then 
She will finish her gorgeous pictures all, 
And hurry away ere the gusty squall 
Ruins her work, and the sere leaves fall 

Darkly in copse and glen. 

WARBLE THY LAYS TO ME 

COME down from the heights, my bird, 
And warble thy lays to me ! 
I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook 
For the passionate song that my spirit shook, 
And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook 
Will murmur all night of thee. 

I shall sit alone — alone, 

While the noontide hours steal by ; 
And mournful the woodland's music will be, — 
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me, — 
Mournful the glory on earth and sea, — 

And mournful the sunset sky. 

O voice of exulting song ! — 

bright, unwavering eye ! — 

free wing soaring in fetterless flight 
Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light ! 
O, Earth that darkenest in sudden night, 

1 shudder, and faint, and die ! 



►^hl^ 



NOTES OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 



ACE 

2 Mrs Margaret H. Alden, born at Caledonia, Ontario, 1863— 
now resident in Saginaw, Michigan. Sister of EdwardWilliam 
Thomson (p. 403). Has pubhshed booklets of verse. 

2 Rev. Joseph Antisell Allen, b. at Arbor Hill, Ireland, 

February 27, 1814. Came to Canada, 1842. Published 
(anonymously), 1854, Day Dreams by a Butterfly (a booklet 
from which the extract in the text is taken) ; The Lambda- 
na-Tercentenary Poem on Shakespeare, 1864 ; The True and 
Romantic Love Story of Colonel and Mrs Hutchinson, a drama 
in verse, 1884; and several prose works. Resides at " Al- 
wington," Kingston, Ontario. 

3 Grant Allen, son of the preceding, b. at Alwington House. 

Kingston, Ontario, February 24, 1848. Educated at Merton 
College, Oxford. A distinguished naturalist, and author of 
many scientific works and novels. Published, in 1894, The 
Lozver Slopes, a volume of poems. Died October 25, 1899, 
at Hazelmere, Surrey, England. 

6 William Talbot Allison, b. at Unionville, Ontario, 
December 20, 1874. Educated at Victoria University. He 
has pubhshed occasional verse in the Magazines. Resides 
in Toronto. 
Mrs Sophie M. Almon-Hensley, b. at Bridgetown, Nova 
Scotia, May, 1866,— a direct descendant of Cotton Mather. 
Educated largely in England and Paris. Published, in 1895, 
a volume of verse entitled A Woman's Love Letters. Now 
resident in New York, where she devotes much time to 
philanthropic work, but spends her summers at Brighton, 
Nova Scotia. 

II Rev. Duncan Anderson, b. in Rayne, Scotland, 1828. Edu- 
cated at King's College and University, Aberdeen. For 
many years chaplain to the Imperial troops stationed at 
L^vis, Quebec. An expert ornithologist. Author of Lays 
of Canada, 1890, and of a prose work, Scottish Folklore, or 
Reminiscences of Aberdeenshire, 1895. Resides at " Mony- 
musk," Chaudiere Basin, Quebec. 

22 ISIDORE G. AscHER, b. in Glasgow, Scotland. 1835. Educated 
in Montreal, and called to the bar, 1862. Author of Votces 
from the Hearth, and Other Poems, 1863. Removed to 
England, 1864, where he has published several novels. 
One of his comediettas was produced at the Crystal Palace. 

387 



388 



Notes of Authors 



PAGE 

20 Alice M. Ardagh (" Esperance"), b. in Monmouthshire, 
Wales, July 15, 1866. Writer of occasional verse. Re- 
sides at Barrie, Ontario. 

23 Samuel Mathewson Baylis, b. in Montreal, September 3, 
1854. Published, in association with W. H. Whyte, Our 
City and Our Sports, 1894 ; and, in 1897, a volume of prose 
and verse entitled Camp and Lamp. Resides in Montreal. 

26 John Wilson Bengough, b. in Toronto, April 5, 1851. 
Printer, caricaturist, lecturer, and poet. Author of several 
works, among them Motley: Verses Grave and Gay, 1895. 
Resides in Toronto. 

28 Craven Langstroth Betts, b. in St John, New^ Brunswick, 
April 23, 1853. Educated at St John Grammar School, 
and Fredericton Normal School. Most of his life has 
been given to business pursuits, but he has done a variety 
of literary work. Besides contributions to Harper s Weekly, 
the New York Independent, the Youtlis Companioti, Puck, 
and Judge, he edited for a year a New York magazine. 
Author of Songs from Berenger (in the original metres), 
1888 ; The Perfume Holder, a Persian Love Poem, 1891. 
For some years he held the office of secretary to the 
American Authors' Guild. Resides in New York. 

31 Blanche Bishop, b. at Greenwich, Nova Scotia, and educated 
at Acadia Seminary, and Acadia University. After study 
and travel in Europe, she taught five years in Moulton 
College, Toronto. Writer of occasional verse. Resides 
at Harding Hall, London, Ontario.. 

33 Edward Blackadder, b. at Wolfville, Nova Scotia, 1871. 
Educated at Acadia University. Author of Poems, Sonnets, 
and Lyrics, 1895. Since 1894 has been engaged as a public 
lecturer on Temperance, under the direction of the Sons of 
Temperance of Nova Scotia. Resides in Wolfville, Nova 
Scotia. 

33 Mrs Jean Blewett, b. at Scotia, Lake Erie, Ontario, 
November 4, 1862 (Janet M'Kishney). Educated at St 
Thomas Collegiate Institute. She has written much 
prose for the public press. Author of Songs of the Heart, 
1897. Resides in Toronto. 

36 John Breakenridge, b. at Niagara, Ontario, February 13, 
1820 ; d. July 18, 1854, at Belleville, Ontario. Educated 
at Upper Canada College. Barrister at Law. Author of 
The Crusades, and Other Poems, 1846. 

38 John Henry Brown, b. in Ottawa, Ontario, April 29, 1859. 
A member of the Civil Service. Author of Poems, Lyrical 
and Dramatic, 1892. Resides in Ottawa. 

40 Edward Burrough Brownlow ("Sarepta"), b. in London, 
England, November 27, 1857 ; d, in Montreal, September 
8, 1895. In 1896 The Pen and Pencil Club of Montreal 



Notes of Authors 389 



published Orpheus and Other Poems, a collection of his 
verse. 

41 George Frederick Cameron, b. in New Glasgow, Nova 
Scotia, September 24, 1854. He was editor of the Kings- 
ton, Ontario, Ne7vs at the time of his death, September 
1885. Lyrics on Freedom, Love, and Death, edited by his 
brother Charles J. Cameron, appeared in 1887. 

45 Bliss Carman, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 
1861. Educated at the Collegiate School there and at the 
University of New Brunswick, and with subsequent study at 
Edinburgh and Harvard Universities. In 1890 was literary 
editor of the New York Independent, and was also connected 
with the Cosmopolitan and Atlantic Monthly Magazines. 
In 1894 he established the Chap Book. Author of Low Tide 
on Gratid Prd, A Book of Lyrics, 1893 ; Soji^s fro7n Vaga- 
bo7idia (in conjunction with R. S. Hovey, Boston), 1894 ; 
A Sea- Mark, 1895 ; Behind the Arras : a Book of the Unseen, 
1895; More Songs from Vagabondia, 1896; and By the 
Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies, 1898. Moves back 
and forth freely between the Maritime Provinces and the 
United States. His present address is Independent Office, 
114 Nassau Street, New York. 

59 Amos Henry Chandler, M.D., son of the late Governor 

Chandler, b. at Dorchester, New Brunswick, August 8, 

1837. Author of Lyrics, Songs, and Sonnets (conjointly 

with the late Rev. C. P. Mulvaney), 1880. Resides at 
Dorchester, New Brunswick. 

60 Edward J. Chapman, Ph.D., F.C.S. , b. in England. Pro- 

fessor of Mineralogy in University College, Toronto, for 
many years. He recently resigned his professorship. Author 
of A Song of Charity, 1857. 

63 Mrs Annie Rothwell Christie, b. in London, England, 
1837. Came to Canada when four years of age, living 
with her family on Amherst Island, near Kingston, Ontario. 
Some of her best poems are to be found in the Magazine of 
Poetry. The examples given in the text were written at the 
time of the Half-Breed Rebellion. She has published no 
volume of poems, but is the author of four novels of much 
interest. Resides at The Rectory, North Gower, Ontario. 

67 George Herbert Clarke, b. at Gravesend, England, 
August 27, 1873. Educated at Woodstock College, and 
M 'Master University. Has published occasional verse in 
the Magazines. He is Assistant Editor of the Baptist 
Unio7i of Chicago, where he at present resides. 

70 Hugh Cochrane, for some time City Editor of the Montreal 
Witness. Author of booklets Rhyme and Roundelay, and 
Ideal and Other Poems. For the past two years he has been 
employed on the Literary World, London, England, — 
which is his present address. 



390 Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

70 Hereward K. Cockin, b. at Prizing Hall, near Manningham, 
Yorkshire, England. Author of Gentleman Dick the Greys, 
and Other Poems, 1889. Present occupation is divided between 
journalism and prospect mining in the Michipicoten district, 
on the north-east shore of Lake Superior. Resides in Guelph, 
Ontario. 

72 Mrs Sara Jeanette Duncan Cotes, b. at Brantford, Ontario, 

1862, and educated at the Collegiate School there. Has 
published very occasional verse, but since 1890 has issued 
many popular books, travels and novels. Resides in 
Calcutta, India, since her marriage in 1891. 

73 Isabella Valancy Crawford, b. near Dublin, Ireland, 

December 25, 1851. Came to Canada when five years of 
age, living with her father, Stephen Crawford, M.D. , in 
Peterboro, Ontario. Removed to Toronto, where she died 
February 12, 1887. Author of Old Spookses Pass, Malcolm's 
Katie, and Other Poems, 1884, and much occasional verse. 

78 Francis Blake Crofton, b. at Crossboyne, Ireland, 1842, 
and educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He is librarian 
of the Parliamentary Library, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Writer 
of occasional verse, and author of several works, among them 
Haliburton, the Man and the Writer, and The Imperialism 
of Halibiirton. Resides in Halifax. 

81 John Allister Currie, b. at Nottawa, Ontario, February 25, 
1862. Was for thirteen years engaged as a journalist on 
the Toronto Mail and Empire and the Toronto News. Is 
now engaged in the brokers' business. Author of ^ Quartette 
of Lovers, 1892. Resides in Toronto. 

81 Mrs Margaret Gill Currie, b. at Lower St Mary's, New 
Brunswick, June 14, 1843. Author of John Saint John and 
Anna Gray, 1897, a colonial romance in verse. Resides in 
Fredericton, New Brunswick. 

83 Mrs Sarah Anne Curzon, b. near Birmingham, England, 1833. 
Came to Toronto in 1862 ; d. at Toronto, October 6, 1898. 
Was a frequent contributor in prose and verse to the Canadian 
press. Author of Lazira Secord, the Heroine of 1S12, a drama, 
1887. The issue of this volume led to the formation of several 
historical societies. Since 1887, Mrs Curzon's literary work 
was chiefly on historical subjects. 

87 Nicholas Flood Davin, Q.C, M.P.,b. at Kilfinane, Ireland, 
January 13, 1843. Connected himself with the press in 
Toronto, 1872, and established the Regina Leader in 1883, 
— the first newspaper issued in Assiniboia. Published in 
1889, Eos : an Epic of the Dawn ; and subsequently 
several works in prose. Resides at Regina, N.W.T. 

8g A. B. De Mille, son of the following, b. in Halifax, Nova 
Scotia, March 7, 1873. Recently appointed professor of 
English Literature in King's College, Windsor. Has 



Notes of Authors 391 



published occasional verse in the Magazines. Resides at 
Windsor, Nova Scotia. 

92 James De Mille, b. in St John, New Brunswick, August 23, 
1836 ; d. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, January 28, 1880. 
Writer of occasional verse. The extract in the te.xt is 
taken from a posthumous publication issued by Allan 
& Co., of Halifax, Nova Scotia, — a poem entitled Behind 
the Veil. Mr De Mille was professor in Acadia College, 
and subsequently in Dalhousie College. He is the author 
of numerous works in prose, among them Helena's House- 
hold : a tale of the First Century ; The Dodge Club ; and 
Elements of Rhetoric. (See note under Richard Huntington. ) 

96 Edward Hartley Dewart, D.D., b. in the Co. Cavan, 
Ireland, 1828. Came to the County of Peterboro, Ontario, 
with his family in 1834. For twenty-five years he was Editor 
of the Christian Guardian, Toronto. Author of Selections 
frotn Canadian Poets, 1864 ; Songs of Life, 1869 ; Essays 
for the Times (including later poems), 1898. Resides in 
Toronto. 

98 Frederick Augustus Dixon, b. in England, May 7. 1843, 
and came to Canada in the early seventies. He was tutor 
at Rideau Hall during Earl Dufferin's Governor-Generalship. 
He is now Chief Clerk of correspondence. Department of 
Railways and Canals. Is the author of several dramas, 
among them The Mayor of St Brieux, and A Masque of 
Welcome, the latter in honour of the arrival in Canada of 
the Marquis of Lome and the Princess Louise. A con- 
tributor of occasional verse to the Magazines. Resides in 
Ottawa. 

loi William Henry Drummond, M.D., b. at Currawn House, 
Co. Leitrim, Ireland, April 13, 1854. Author of The 
Habitant, and Other French - Canadian Poems, 1898. 
Resides in Montreal. 

104 John Hunter Duvar, b. August 29, 1830; d. January, 1899. 
Of Scoto- English birth and education. He lived the greater 
part of his life in Canada, serving as Lt.-Col. of the 3rd 
Brigade Halifax Garrison Artillery, and later in command 
of Prince County, Prince Edward Island Battalion of active 
militia. For ten years he was Dominion Inspector of 
Fisheries for the Province of Prince Edward Island. 
Author of The Enamorado, a drama, 1878 ; Roberval, a 
drama, 1888 ; The Emigration of the Fairies and The 
Triumph of Constancy, a romaunt. He has written other 
works, also : The judgment of Osiris, The Enchanted 
Moorcss, and Annals of the Court of Oberon. His char- 
acteristic is very marked,— the romantic with a bias towards 
the mystic. Respecting the poem in the text, beginning 
" In the Rheingan standeth Aix," it may be remarked that 
it is a matter of history that the crowned corpse of Charle- 



392 Notes of Authors 



magne sat in the crypt of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, 
until 1166, when the tomb was opened and the chair taken 
away by the Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa. Mr Duvar 
resided at " Hernewood," Fortune Cove, Prince Edward 
Island. 

109 Rev. Arthur Wentworth Hamilton Eaton, b. at Kent- 
ville, Nova Scotia. A graduate of Harvard University. 
Author of Acadian Legends and Lyrics, 1889 ; and of several 
prose works, among them The Church of England in Nova 
Scotia, and the Tory Clergy of the Revolution ; and Tales 
of a Garrison Town (collaborated with C. L. Betts). He 
has in preparation a History of the People of Nova Scotia. 
Resides in New York. 

116 Sir James David Edgar, Speaker of the House of Commons 

of Canada, b. at Hatley, Quebec, August 10, 1841. Author 
of This Canada of Ours, a?id Other Poems, 1893 ; and of 
Canada and its Capital, prose, 1898. Died July 31, 
1899, at Toronto. 

117 Constance Fairbanks, b. at Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, May 

10, 1866. She edited, in conjunction with Mr H. Piers, the 
volume of the poems of the late Mrs Lawson. Writer of oc- 
casional verse in the Magazines. Resides at Halifax, Nova 
Scotia. 

118 Joseph Kearney Foran, b. at Aylmer, Quebec, 1857. 

Educated at the University of Ottawa. A journalist. Author 
of Poems and Canadian Lyrics, 1895, also of a prose work, 
The Spirit of the Age ; Faith and Infidelity. Resides in 
Montreal. 

120 William Henry Fuller, b. at Ramsgate, England. Came 

to Canada in the early seventies. Author of a local burlesque, 
H.AI.S. Parliament, and other plays ; Ye Ballad of Lyttel 
John A ; and several essays and brochures. Resides at 
Ottawa. 

121 Rev. Alexander Rae Garvie, b, at Vilcoy Estate, Demerara, 

British Guiana, January 6, 1839 ; d. at Montreal, March 5, 
1874 ; buried at Chatham, New Brunswick. He was of 
Scotch parentage. His ministerial service was rendered 
chiefly, if not wholly, in the Maritime Provinces. A 
singularly interesting man. Thistledown, a. posthumous 
volume of Poems and Essays, 1875. 

123 Pierce Stevens Hamilton, b. in, or near, Truro, Nova 
Scotia, 1826 ; d. in Halifax, February 1893. A journalist 
and versatile political writer. Author of The Feast of St 
An?ie and Other Poems, 1890. 

126 MrsS. Frances Harrison ("Seranus"),b. in Toronto upwards 
of thirty years ago, and educated in Toronto and Montreal. 
She is a musical critic, and has written widely for the 
Magazines, in prose and verse. Author of The Canadian 



Notes of Authors 393 



Birth-Day Book, 1887; Pine, Rose arid Fleur-de-Lis, 1891. 
Resides in Rosedale, Toronto. 

129 Theodore Arnold Haultain, b. at Kannanur, Madras 
Presidency, November 3, 1857. A graduate of Toronto 
University. Author of Versiculi, 1893 ; and of several 
prose publications. A contributor to many well-known 
Magazines. Resides in Toronto. 

131 Charles Heavysege, b. in Huddersfield, England, 1816; d. 
at his reoidence in Bleury St., Montreal, July 14, 1879. He 
was a cabinetmaker by trade, — and a journalist. Author of 
Saul, a tragedy, 1857 ; Jephthah's Daughter, 1865 ; Cou?it 
Filippo ; or the Unequal Marriage, i860. Saul was first 
published by Mr John Lovell, Montreal ; a second edition 
was issued in Boston. Mr Heavysege was a powerful 
dramatic writer. The North British Revieiv for August, 
1858, characterizes Saul as "one of the most remarkable 
English poems ever written out of Great Britain." There 
is an unfinished work in the hands of his widow, who 
resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. 

133 John Frederic Herein, b. in Windsor, Nova Scotia, 
February 8, i860. His mother was an Acadien (Robichau), 
and his father French. Educated at Acadia University. 
Author of Marshlands, a volume of Poems. Also of Grand 
Prd, a brief history of the Acadien occupation of Minas. 
Resides in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. 

138 Annie Campbell Huestis, b. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1876. 
Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Halifa.\. 

145 Rev. James Cobourg Hodgins, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, 1866. 
In the past seven years he has resided in the United States ; 
and is at present pastor of the church in Philadelphia 
formerly in charge of Rev. Samuel Longfellow. Author of 
Fugitives, a booklet, 1891 ; and A Sheaf of Sonnets, printed 
for private circulation, 1896. 

147 Hon. Joseph Howe, b. at North West Arm, Halifa.x, Nova 
Scotia, 1804 ; of loyalist parentage ; d. in Halifax, June i, 
1873. A most distinguished son of Nova Scotia, and one of 
the ablest of Canadian Statesmen. He was Governor of his 
native Province at the time of his death. Poems and Essays. 
a posthumous publication, 1874. 

141 William Edward Hunt {" Keppell Strange"), b. at 

Brighton, England, of ancient Sussex ancestry. Educated 
at South Kensington, and at the Berbeck Institute. Is a 
member of the editorial staff of the Montreal Witness, 
Author of Poems and Pastels, 1896. Resides in Montreal. 

142 Richard Huntington, b. at Yarmouth. Nova Scotia, 

February 13. 1819; d. at Yarmouth, May 13, 1883. He 
was for thirty years editor and publisher of the Yarmouth 
Tribune. Mr Huntington was a nephew of the late Hon. 



394 Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

Herbert Huntington, and a grandson of Miner Huntington, 
one of the loyalist settlers of Yarmouth (mentioned in 
Sabine's History of the Loyalists) ; and a distant relative of 
the late Hon. L. S. Huntington, of Quebec. A writer of 
occasional verse. In Lighthall's Songs of the Great 
Dotninion, a poem entitled The Indian Names of Acadia is 
erroneously attributed to De Mille (the late professor James 
De Mille). It was written by Richard Huntington. 

149 Charles Edwin J AKEWAY, M.D., b. at Holland Landing, 
Ontario, 1847. Graduated M.D. at Toronto, 1871. Author 
of The Lion and the Lilies ; a Tale of the Conquest, and 
Other Poems, 1897. Resides at Stayner, Ontario. 

155 E. Pauline Johnson,— Tekahioi^wake—, b. at "Chief- 
wood," Six Nations Reserve, County of Brant, Ontario. She 
is the daughter of the late George Henry M. Johnson, head 
chief of the Mohawk Indians, by his wife, Emily S. Howells, 
of Bristol, England. Educated by private tuition, and at 
the Brantford Model School. She is a frequent contributor 
to the periodical press. In 1894 she visited England, and 
while there published The White Wafnpzim, a book of 
poems. She has publicly recited her poems throughout 
Canada and the United States. Resides at Winnipeg, 
Manitoba. 

160 Robert Kirkland Kernighan(" The Khan"), b. at Rush- 
dale Farm, near Hamilton, Ontario, April 25, 1857. A 
journalist, and widely known as the author of many clever 
songs, and of patriotic and humorous verse. He pub- 
lished The Tattleton Papers, prose, 1894 ; and The Khan s 
Canticles, 1896. Resides at Rushdale Farm, Rockton, 
Ontario. 

162 William Kirby, b. at Kingston-upon-Hull, England, October 
13, 1817. Came to Canada with his parents, 1832. A 
journalist, novelist, and poet. Was Collector of Customs at 
Niagara (where he settled in 1839) from July i, 1871, till his 
retirement from the public service, 1895. Author of The U. 
E., 1859, an epic poem, very valuable as a series of pictures 
of loyalist personages and times ; Canadian Idyls (2nd ed. ), 
1894. He has published four volumes in prose, the chief of 
which is The Golden Dog, a Lege?id of Quebec, 1877, and 
1896. A new American edition of this work was published 
in 1898. Mr Kirby resides at Niagara, Ontario. 

166 Rev. Matthew Richey Knight, b. at Halifax, Nova Scotia, 
April 21, 1854. Educated at Mount Allison University. 
He has written considerable, in prose and verse. Author of 
Poems of Ten Years, 1887. Present residence, Boistown, 
New Brunswick. 

168 Archibald Lampman, b. at Morpeth, Ontario, November 
17, 1861 ; d. at Ottawa, February 10, 1899. Educated at 
Trinity University, Toronto. He was a member of the 



Notes of Authors 395 



Canadian Civil Service, in the Post Office Department. 
Elected F.R.S. Can., 1895. Author of Among the Millet, 
and Other Poems, 1888; Lyrics of Earth, 1895. Resided in 
Ottawa. His complete poems, edited with a Memoir, were 
published under the supervision of Duncan Campbell Scott, 
March, 1900. 

177 Mrs Mary Jane Katzmann Lawson\ b. at " Maroon Hall," 
Preston, about five miles from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. 
Her mother — a Nova Scotian — was a granddaughter of Dr 
Joshua Prescott, of Massachusetts. She was largely self- 
educated. For two years she edited the Provincial Magazine. 
In 1887 she obtained the Aikin's Historical Prize of King's 
College for her History of the Toivnships of Dartmouth, 
Preston., and Lawrcncetown, — since published. She died 
at Halifa.x, March 23, 1890. In 1893, Frankincense and 
Myrrh (selections from the poems of the late Mrs Lawson) 
appeared under the joint editorship of Mr Harry Piers and 
Miss Constance Fairbanks. 

180 Mrs Sophia V. Gilbert Lee, author of Wayside Echoes, a 
volume of verse, 1894. Resides at Penetanguishene, Ontario. 

180 Mrs Lily Alice Lefevre (" Heurange"), b. at Stratford, 
Ontario, but reared at Brockville. Educated at Villa Maria 
Convent, Montreal. Author of The Lion's Gate, and Other 
Verses, 1895. (The two highest peaks of the mountains that 
overlook the harbor of Vancouver bear a strong resemblance 
in outline to the lions of Trafalgar Square. ) Has resided at 
Vancouver, British Columbia, the past fifteen years. 

182 Mrs R. E. Mullins Leprohon, b. in Montreal, 1832. 
Educated at the Convent of the Congregation of Notre 
Dame. She was a leading contributor to the Literary 
Garland, and contributed freely to other periodicals. She 
wrote many tales. After her death at Montreal, September 
20, 1879, John Lovel! & Son published The Poetical Works 
ofMrs Leprohon (Miss P. E. Mullins), i88r. 

184 William Douw Eighth all, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, 
December 27, 1857. Educated at M'Gill University. He 
is the head of the law firm Lighthall & Harwood. Montreal ; 
and was one of the founders of the Soc. of Can. Lit. . and of 
the Chateau de Ramezay Museum. Author of Thoughts, 
Moods, and Ideals, a booklet of verse, 1887. In 1889 he 
edited Sont^s of the Great Dominion (Windsor Series. 
London), and Canadian Poems and Lays (Canterbury Poets 
Series, 1891). He has written several prose works, the latest 
being the novel, The False Chevalier, a Canadian Adventurer 
at th'e Court of Louis XVI. (1898). Resides in Montreal. 

187 Stuart Livingston, Q. C, b. in Canada of U. E. I.^yalist 
stock. Was educated at Toronto University. He is the 
head of the law firm Livingston & Garrett. Hamilton, 
but is well known in literary and artistic circles as a v^Titer 



39^ Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

and a painter. Besides The History of Professor Paul, a 
novel, and contributions to the Magazines, he has published 
hi Various Moods, a book of poems, 1894. Resides in 
Hamilton, Ontario. 

192 Rev. Arthur John Lockhart ("Pastor Felix"), b. at 
Lockhartville, Nova Scotia, May 5, 1850. For some years 
he was a printer, but entered the ministry in 1872. He is 
widely known as a writer in prose and verse in Canadian and 
American periodicals. A Masque of Minstrels, poems by 
himself and his brother, 1887 ; and Beside the Narraguagus 
and Other Poems, 1895. Contributed in prose io Burnsiana, 
1893. Resides at Pemaquid, Maine, U.S. 

196 Rev. Burton Wellesley Lockhart, D.D., brother of the 
preceding, b. at Lockhartville, Nova Scotia, January 24, 
1855. Educated at Acadia University. Among his poems 
of special note, included in A Masque of Minstrels, are The 
Retrospect, Sir Richard Grenville, hi Solemn Vision, The 
Old Home, Wordsworth, and Talking by the Sea. Resides 
at Manchester, New Hampshire, U.S. 

198 John E. Logan (" Barry Dane"). A writer of fugitive verse 

of much beauty. Resides in Montreal. 

199 Agnes Maule Machar (" Fidelis"), b. in Kingston, Ontario. 

Has for years contributed both in prose and verse to Canadian 
and American periodicals. She is best known as a novelist. 
Resides at Kingston, Ontario, but lives at " Fern Cliff," 
among the Thousand Islands, in the summer. 

204 Evan MacColl, b. at Kenmore, Scotland, September 21, 

1808 ; d. at Toronto, July 1898. Came to Canada, 1850, 
filling a position in the Customs at Kingston, Ontario, till 
he retired on a pension, 1880. Author of Clasach nam 
Bearin : or, Poems and Songs in Gaelic, 1838 ; The Mountain 
AIi?istrel : or, Poems and Songs in English, 1838; and 
Poems and Songs, chiefly written in Canada, 1883 (2nd ed. 
1866). He was appointed a Fellow of the R. S. Can. on its 
organisation, 1880. The Child of Promise, given in the text, 
is a translation from the author's Gaelic poem, by Dr 
Buchannan. 

205 Mrs Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, b. at Westcock, 

New Brunswick. Educated at the Collegiate School of 
Fredericton, and at the University of New Brunswick, and 
was for some time teacher in the School for the Blind, 
Halifax, Nova Scotia. Her poems have appeared chiefly 
in the Magazines. In 1891 she issued a booklet of poems 
for private circulation. Resides at Fredericton, New Bruns- 
wick. 

206 John Macfarlane (" John Arbory"), b. at Abington, Scot- 

land, May 1857. Author of Heather and Harebell ; Songs 
and Lyrics, 1892. He contributed to Burnsiana. In 1895 
he edited The Harp of the Scottish Covenant, — an anthology 



Notes of Authors 397 

PAGE 

of poetry " intended to do for the Covenanters, what has long 
ago been done for the Cavahers and the Jacobites." Resides 
in Montreal. 

208 Mrs Kate Seymour Maclean, b. at Fulton, Oswego County, 
New York. She is a well-knosvn writer of verse for the 
Magazines. Author of The Coming of the Princess, and 
Other Poems, 1881. Resides at Kingston, Ontario. 

211 Mrs Elizabeth S. MacLeod, b. in Edinburgh, Scotland. 

Is a frequent contributor to the Magazines. Author of 
Carols of Canada, 1893. Resides in Charlottetown, Prince 
Edward Island. 

212 A. D. MacNeill, of Orangedale, Nova Scotia. Author of a 

booklet, Woodlands and Other Rhymes (without date). 

213 Donald M'Caig, b. in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, May 

15, 1832. Educationist. Author of Milestone Moods and 
Memories, poems, 1893 ; and A Reply to John Stuart Mill, 
on the Subjection of Women, prose, 1871. Resides at 
CoUingwood, Ontario. 

215 James M'C.^rroll, b. in Lanesboro", Co. Longford, Ireland, 
August 3, 1814, d. — ?. Came to Ontario, 1831. Journalist. 
Author of Madeline, and Other Poems, 1889. 

217 William M'Donnell, b. at Cork, Ireland, September 1824. 

Author of Manila, and other booklets of poems. He is the 
undoubted author of the original of the many poems entitled 
Beautiful Snow. Resides at Lindsay, Ontario. 

218 Bernard M'Evoy, b. in Birmingham, England, February 7, 

1842, Came to Canada in 1888, and was employed as a 
journalist on the Toronto Mail and Empire, till 1898. His 
great grandfather. Rev. John Augustus Nisbitt M'Evoy, was 
vicar of Kineton, Warwick, for forty years, preaching once 
a month in the church at Stratford-upon Avon, in which 
Shakespeare is buried. Author of Aivay from Neivspaperdom 
and Other Poems, 1897. Resides in Toronto. 

219 Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, M.P,, b. at Carlingford, Ireland, 

April 13, 1825. Came to Canada. 1857. He was assassi- 
nated in Ottawa, Canada, April 7. 1868. Author of Canadian 
Ballads and Occasional I 'erses, 1858. A Canadian statesman 
of high repute. 

224 William P. M'Kenzie, b. at Almonte, Ontario, about 1855. 
Educated at Toronto University and Knox College. Was 
Professorfor some lime of English Literature in the University 
of Rochester. \J .'>. Author of A Song of Trust, 1887; 
Voices and Undertones, 1889; Songs of the Human, 1892; 
and Heartsease Hymns and Other Verses, 1895. Present 
residence, Boston, U.S. 

227 Alexander M'Lachlan, b. in Johnstone, Renfrewshire. 
Scotland, August 12, 1818. Came to Canada. 1840. Died 
at Orangeville. Ontario, March 20, 1896. Author of Lyrics, 



39^ Notes of Authors 

I'AGE 

1858 ; The Emigrant atid Other Poems, 1861 ; Poems and 
Songs, 1888. His complete poems, with Memoir, published 
April, 1900. A representative poet, and widely known. 

231 John M'Pherson (" Harp of Acadia"), b, in Liverpool, Nova 
Scotia, February 4, 1817 ; d. at Brookfield, Nova Scotia, 
July 26, 1845, and is buried near Lake Tupper. He was 
a teacher. In 1862 his collected poems were published at 
Halifax under the title of Poems, Descriptive and Moral. 

233 Charles Mair, b. at Lanark, Ontario, September 21, 1840. 
Educated at Queen's University, Kingston. Author of 
Dreamland and Other Poems, 1868 ; Tecumseh, a Drama, 
1886. A Fellow of the R. S. Can. Resides at Winnipeg, 
Manitoba. 

238 George Martin, b. at Kilrae, Ireland, 1822. Came to 
Canada, 1832, and has lived in Montreal since 1835. Was 
educated at the Black River Literary Institute, Watertown, 
New York ; and subsequently studied Medicine. Author of 
Margzierite : or the Isle of Demons, and Other Poems, 1887. 
It is said he contemplates the publication of another volume 
of poems at an early day. Resides in Montreal. 

241 Helen M. Merrill, b. in Napanee, Ontario. Educated at 
the Ladies' College, Ottawa. An Entomologist. She has 
published no volume of verse. In 1892 she published a 
small holiday volume, entitled Picturesque Prince Edward 
County. The poem in the text. The Blue Flower, is a 
personification of the unattainable. Resides at Picton, 
Ontario. 

244 Mrs Susanna (Strickland) Moodie, b. in Suffolk, England, 
December 6, 1803 ; came to Canada, 1832 ; d. in Toronto, 
April 8, 1885. Author of Roughing it in the Bush and Life 
i?i the Clearings, 1853, prose, with poetry interspersed, — 
both written in Canada. Enthusiasm, and Other Poems, 
1830. Published considerable fugitive verse. 

247 Mary Morgan ("Gowan Lea"), a native of Scotland, but 
came in childhood to Montreal. Author of IVoodnotes in 
the Gloaming, 1887 ; Sonnets from Switzerland, 1896. 
Travels extensively in Europe, — "a citizen of the world." 

249 Mrs Irene Elder Morton, b. at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, 
February 17, 1849. Educated at Acadia Seminary. She 
has written much verse, and some prose, but has not 
published any volume. Resides at " The Bluffs," Clements- 
port, Nova Scotia, 

255 Rev. Charles Pelham Mulvaney, b. in Dublin, Ireland, 

May 20, 1835 ; d. in Toronto, May 31, 1885. A classical 
scholar of distinction. Published in 1880, conjointly with 
A. H. Chandler, Lyrics, Songs and Sonnets. 

256 George Murray, b. in London, England. Educated at 

King's College, London, and at Oxford University. Before 



Notes of Authors 399 

taking his degree in i860 he published The Oxford Ars 
Poetica; or, Haiv to Write a Nacdigafc. Came to Canada 
iS-^Q and was connected with the Montreal High School 
until his retirement on a pension in 1892. He ^vas one of 
the editors of the literary remains of Hon. D Arcy M Oee. 
Author of Verses and Versions, 1891. Resides in Montreal. 
200 H M. NiCKERSON, b. in Nova Scotia. Author oi Carols of 
'the Coast, 1892. Mr Nickerson is known as the ' ' I< isherman 
Poet." Resides at Clark's Harbor, Nova Scotia. 
261 Cornelius O'Brien. His Grace the Archbishop of Halifax, 
b near New Glast^ow, Prince Edward Island, May 4. 1843- 
Besides many works in prose he published in 1890. Amtnta, 
a Modern Life Drama. Was President of the Royal Soc. 
of Can., 1896-7. Resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia. 
261 Thomas O'Hagan. Ph.D., b. near Toronto, Ontario. 1855. 
Educated at St Michael's College and at Ottawa University, 
taking subsequent studies at Syracuse and Cornell ^niversi- 
ties Author of .4 Gate of Flowers , 1887; /« Dreamland and 
Other Poems, 1893 \ Songs of the Settlement, 1899- Resides 
in Toronto. 
26.1 Horatio Gilbert Parker, b. at Camden East, Addington. 
■* Ontario. 1859. Educated at Trinity University, Toronto. 
A novelist of wide repute, and author of.-/ ^^''f^^"^^' 
noems (2nd ed. 1894). Has lived in Australia, but now 
?es1Sls \n London, England, making frequent visits to 
Canada. 
26=; Amy PARKINSON was born in Liverpool. England, and came 
^ to Toronto. Ontario, with her parents when a child. Her 
formal education ceased when she was twelve years of age 
her health failing her. For eight or nine JJ^'-s PJ^t. she 
has not risen from her bed. Her poems are dictated to her 
father and it is noteworthy that her mind is specially 
vigorous in composition as she is passing into or recovering 
from the severe attacks which seize her any one of which 
St prove fatal. Author of booklets of verse. Ur.e 
Through All, and In His Keeping. Resides in Toronto. 
of.^ Frank L Pollock, b. February 1876. Has resided for 
"'' "^"^^he most part in St Mary's. Ontario, jndm Toronto His 
literary productions have appeared ch.ctly in the 1 ^M . 
Complnion, The Criterion, Atnslees Magaztne^nd. Toum 
Topics. His present residence is in New York City. 
.nr. ANDREW Ramsay, b. in 1849, near the village of West 
^^° F^anLro Ont^^ "After two years of torture under 

ihe mad manipulation of a savage schoolmaster. he 
••escaped to the wilderness for what scanty education he 
obtained Author of The Canadian Lyre, ^859 . H'- 
Z,^h- The Forest li^ht, and Other Poems, 1869; One 
°Qut,' Da': ^rZ.niV^^ry. .m. MuH.,. THe Found- 



400 Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

ling, and Other Poems, 1886. Is a house decorator, and 
has won distinction in landscape work in that art. Resides 
at Westover, Ontario. 

273 Theodore Harding Rand, D.C.L., b. at Cornwallis, Nova 
Scotia, February 8, 1835. Educated at Horton Academy 
and Acadia University. Has devoted his Hfe to Education. 
Organised the .systems of Free Public Schools of both Nova 
Scotia and New Brunswick. Ex- Principal of Woodstock 
College, and Ex-Chancellor of M'Master University, — by 
whom the founding of the University was promoted, and 
organised as such. Author oi At Minas Basin, and Other 
Poems, 1897 (second edition, enlarged, 1898). Resides in 
Toronto. 

282 Walter A. Ratcliffe, b. in London, England, August 23, 

1865. Came to Canada with his parents at the age of seven 
years. He is almost totally blind and deaf. Published 
Morning Songs in the Nighty 1897. Resides at Port Hope, 
Ontario. 

283 John Reade, b. at Ballyshannon, Ireland, November 13, 

1837. Educated at Queen's College, Belfast. Came to 
Canada, 1856. Author of The Prophecy of Merlin, and 
Other Poems, 1870. In association with Professor Pen- 
hallow of M'Gill University, he inaugurated the Montreal 
branch of the Am. Folk-lore Soc. He has been president 
of the Eng. Lit. and Hist, section of the Royal Soc. Can. 
Elected a Fellow of the Royal Soc. of Lit. of Great Britain, 
1896. Since 1870 he has been literary and general assistant 
editor of the Montreal Gazette. Resides in Montreal. 

290 Robert Reid ("Rob Wanlock"), b. at Wanlockhead, 
Scotland, June 8, 1850. Came to Canada 1877, and has 
since then filled a responsible position in the mercantile 
establishment of Henry Morgan & Co. , Montreal. Author 
of Moorla?id Rhymes, 1874 ; and Poems, Songs and Sonnets, 
1894. Resides in Montreal. 

292 Charles George Douglas Roberts, b. at Douglas, near 
Fredericton, New Brunswick, January 10, i860. Educated 
at the University of New Brunswick. He became editor of 
the Toronto Week, 1883, and later Professor of English 
Literature and Economics in King's College, Windsor, 
Nova Scotia. Since 1895 he has devoted himself ex- 
clusively to literary work. Author of Orion and Other 
Poems, 1880 ; In Divers Tones, 1887 ; Poems of Wild 
Life: an Anthology, 1888; Ave: An Ode for the Shelley 
Centenary, 1892 ; Songs of the Common Day, and Ave, 
1893 ; The Book of the Native, poems, 1896 ; and New 
York Nocturnes and Other Poems, 1898. He has also pub- 
lished several novels and other works. He was one of 
the literary arbiters at the World's Fair, Chicago. Resides 
in Fredericton, New Brunswick (and in New York). Note. 
— The two following are younger brothers of Mr Roberts, 



Notes of Authors 401 



PAGE 

and Mrs Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald is a sister, while 
Mr Bliss Carman and Mr Barry Straton are cousins of 
the foreg^oing. They are children of three sisters. 

309 Theodore Roberts, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, 
July 7, 1877. Educated at the Collegiate School of that 
city. His verse has appeared in the Magazines. He was 
war correspondent for the New York Independent in the 
Spanish- American War. Resides at Fredericton, New 
Brunswick. 

313 William Carman Roberts, b. at Fredericton, New Bruns- 
wick, December 6, 1874. Educated at the Collegiate School, 
and the University of that city. He has published verse in 
the Magazines and literary periodicals. Has done journal- 
istic work in New York. Resides at Fredericton, New 
Brunswick. 

315 George John Romanes, b. at Kingston, Ontario, May 20, 

1848 ; d. at Oxford. England, May 23. 1894. Educated at 
Caius College, Oxford. A distinguished naturalist, and 
brilliant scientific and philosophical writer. During his 
somewhat prolonged illness he preserved to the last his 
mental vigour and keenness of interest in scientific pursuits. 
Not long before his death he said : " I have now come to 
see that faith (the Christian faith) is intellectually justifiable." 
The sonnet of the text has a pathos all its own. Longmans, 
Green & Company published a volume of selections of his 
poetry, 1896. 

316 Carroll Ryan, b. in Toronto, Ontario, February 3, 1839. 

Educated at St Michael's College. Hejserved as a volunteer 
in the British German Legion and Turkish Contingent, 
during the Crimean war, and in H.M.'s looth Royal Can. 
Regt., 1859. After his return to Canada he commanded 
a battery of volunteer artillery at Ottawa, and was extra 
A.D.C. to Gen. Sir E. S. Smyth. Mr Ryan is a veteran of 
the Canadian press. Author of Oscar and Other Poems, 
1857 ; Songs of a Wanderer, 1867 ; and Picture Poems, 
1884. Resides in Montreal. 

318 Charles Sangster, b. at Kingston, Ontario, 1822; d. at 
Ottawa, Ontario, T893. Author of The St Lawrence, and 
the Saguenay, and Other Poems, 1856, and of Hesperus and 
Other Poems and Lyrics, i860. A representative Canadian 
poet, widely known. 

322 Duncan Campbell Scott, b. at Ottawa, Ontario, August 
2, 1862. Educated at Stanstcad Wesleyan College. Is 
Accountant of the Department of Indian Affairs. He is 
a contributor to Magazines in prose and verse. Author 
of The Magic House and Other Poems, 1893, ^"d of Labor 
and the Angel, 1898. Resides at Ottawa. 

330 Rev. Frederick George Scott, b. in Montreal. April 7, 
1861. Educated at Bishop's College, Lennoxville, Quebec, 
2 C 



402 Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

and at King's College, London, England. Author of The 
Soul's Quest, and Other Poerns, 1888 ; Elton Hazlewood, a 
dramatic life-story, 2nd ed., 1893; My Lattice and Other 
Poems, 1894 ; The Unnamed Lake and Other Poems, 1897 ; 
and Poems Old ajtd New, 1899. Resides in Quebec city. 
336 Charles Dawson Shanly, b. in Dublin, Ireland, March 
9, 181 T. Came to Canada, 1836, and settled near London, 
Ontario. He edited Punch in Canada. A writer of oc- 
casional verse. He became noted as an Art Critic in New 
York. Died at Arlington, Florida (whither he had gone in 
search of health), April 15, 1875, ^"^^ is buried near London, 
Ontario. Best known as engineer of the Hoosac Tunnel. 

338 Francis Sherman, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, 1871. 
Educated at the Collegiate School and the University there. 
Author of Matins, 1896 ; In Memorabilia Mortis, a booklet 
of Sonnets, 1896 ; and A Prelude, privately printed, 1897. 
Resides in Fredericton. 

341 GOLDWiN Smith, LL.D., D.C. L., author, and a distinguished 

Professor of History, b. at Reading, England, August 23, 
1823. His published works are numerous and widely known, 
— among them. Bay Leaves : Translations fro7n the Latin 
Poets, 1894. A very occasional writer of verse. Resides 
at " The Grange," Toronto. 

342 Lyman C. Smith, b. at Glanford, near Hamilton, Ontario, 

September 8, 1850. Educated at Victoria University. He 
has been for the past eighteen years the principal of the 
High School, Oshawa, Ontario. Author of Mabel Gray and 
Other Poems, 1896. 

344 Rev. William Wye Smith, b. in Jedburgh, Scotland, March 

18, 1827. Came to Canada, 1837. A man of considerable 
journalistic experience. Author of Poems, 1888 ; The New 
Testatnent in Broad Scotch, 1896. Resides at St Catharines, 
Ontario. 

345 Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe, b. at Gracehill, Ireland, 

December 27, 1861. Educated at Belfast Inst., and holds 
certificates from the Science and Art Department, South 
Kensington. Author of Poems, Grave and Gay, 1891. He 
is editor of the Larnp, a paper devoted to theosophy. 
Resides in Toronto. 

346 Hiram Ladd Spencer, b. at Castleton, Vermont, April 28, 

1829, and educated there. Among his classmates were 
Henry Cabot Lodge, W. C. Wilkinson, W. C. Langdon, 
and Redfield Proctor. He became a resident of St John, 
New Brunswick, 1863. A journalist. Author of Poems, 
1848; A Song of the Years: a Memory of Acadia, 1889, 
(widely known,— published by J. & A. M'Millan, St John, 
N. B.). Resides in St John. 

348 Ezra Hurlburt Stafford, M.D., b. 1865. Is an associate 
editor of Canadian Journal of Medici?ie and Surgery. An 



Notes of Authors 403 



occasional contributor to periodicals. Author of Sainis' Day 
Ballads, and Sundry Other Measures, a booklet, 1895. 
Resides in Toronto. 

351 Alexander Charles Stewart, b. — ? Author o^ Poems and 
Songs, 1890; ^ ne Pensioner, iSgo, — a booklet. Resides in 
Toronto. 

351 Phillips Stewart, b. 1864 ; d. in Toronto, Ontario, 
February 2, 1892. Author of Poems, 1887. A dominant 
sadness inspired the muse of this gifted youth. His early 
death was a loss to Canadian literature. 

353 Barry Stkaton, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, December 
27, 1854. Educated at the Collegiate School of that city. 
Studied law, but the confinement proving detrimental to his 
health, he resorted to farming. Author of Lays 0/ Love, and 
Miscellaneous Poems, 1884 ; The Building of the Bridge : an 
Idyl of the St John, 1887 ; and The Hunters Hand Book. 
Resides at Maugerville, New Brunswick. 

356 Arthur J. Stringer, a journalist of the Montreal Herald, 
till very recently. Author of Watchers of T-wilight, 1894; 
Pauline and Other Poems, 1895 I ^"^ Epigrams, 1896. 
Present residence, New York. 

359 Alan Sullivan, b. in Montreal, November 29, 1867. 
Educated at Loretto School, Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. 
A civil engineer. Author of a booklet of verse. Resides at 
Rat Portage, Ontario. 

361 Bertram Tennyson, Q.C, b.— ? Author of The Land of 
Napioa and Other Essays in Prose and Verse, 1896. Resides 
at Moosomin, N. W. T., Canada. 

363 Edward William Thomson, b. in the township of Toronto, 
Ontario, February 12, 1849. Educated at Trinity College 
Grammar School, Weston. He served with the army of 
the Potomac during the closing scenes of the Am. Civil 
War. Served in the field with the Queen's Own Rifles, 
Toronto. In 1889-90 was chief editorial writer on the 
Toronto Globe. He removed to Boston to accept a lucrative 
post on the Youth's Companion. Writer of occasional verse, 
and author of several volumes of short stories. Resides in 
Boston, Mass. 

365 John Stuart Thomson, b. in Montreal, 1870, where he was 
educated at the old "Senior School," and in special work 
at M'Gill University. He also enjoyed special advantages 
of private classical study in New York City. He is a frequent 
contributor to the Magazines. Author of Estabelle and Other 
Poems, 1897. Resides in New York City. 

369 Francis L. Dominick Waters, b. in Fermoy, Ireland, April 
4, 1857. Educated at St Colman's College. Compelled by 
ill health to abandon his medical studies, he came to Canada, 
1879. He has devoted himself chiefly lo literature. Author 



404 Notes of Authors 

PAGE 

of The Water Lily : an Oriental Fairy Tale, 1888. Resides 
at Cornwall, Ontario. 

370 Arthur Weir, b. in Montreal, June 17, 1864. Educated 
at M'Gill University. He has had considerable journalistic 
experience. Author of Fleur de Lys, poems, 1877 I ^■^ 
Romance of Sir Richard, Sonnets, and Other Poems, 1890 ; 
The Snowjlake, afid Other Poeins, 1896. He was selected to 
read the inaugural poem at the unveiling of the national 
monument to Sir John A. Macdonald, at Ottawa, 1895 ; and 
he also wrote the inaugural poem for the unveiling of the 
monument to Maisonneuve, dedicated on the same day. 
Resides in Montreal. 

376 Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald ("Bel Thistlewaite "), b. in 
Rockwood, Ontario, of English Quaker parentage, and 
educated at Friends' Schools in New York and Ontario. 
She has done much journalistic work. Author of The 
Algonqjiin Maiden, a romance of the early days of Upper 
Canada, written in collaboration with G. Mercer Adam ; and 
The House of Trees, a volume of verse, 1896. Resides at 
Fenwick, Ontario. 

379 Rev. William Henry Withrow, D.D., author and journa- 

list, b. in Toronto, August 6, 1839. Educated at Victoria 
and Toronto Universities. Elected a Fellow of the Eng. 
Lit. Sec. of the Royal Soc. of Can., 1884. He is editor of 
the Methodist Magazine and Review, and author of numerous 
volumes, the best known of which is The Cataco^nbs of Rome, 
and their Testimony Relative to Prifnitive Christianity. 
Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Toronto. 

380 Rev R. Walter Wright, b. near Toronto, Ontario, December 

29, 1852. Educated at Streetsville High School, and was 
graduated in Theology in connection with Chautauqua Uni- 
versity. Author of The Dreatn of Columbus, a poem, 1894. 
Present residence, Arthur, Ontario. 

382 Mrs Eva Rose York, b. in Western Ontario, December 22, 
1858. Educated at Woodstock College, and at the New 
England Conservatory of Music. Writer of occasional 
verse. Resides in Toronto. 

384 Mrs Pamelia Vining Yule, wife of the late professor J. C. 
Yule, of Woodstock College, Ontario. Author of Poems of 
the Heart and Home, 1881, and of several prose works. She 
was born in Clarendon, State of New York, and her early 
life was spent in Elhcottville in that State. Died at Ingersoll, 
Ontario, 1896. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

A BLOOD-KED ring hung round the moon . . . 198 

Adieu to these ! — Niagara, thy roar . 351 

A forethouglit of the fated reign of peace . .78 

After her bath yet early in the day .... 270 
Ah, list the music of the whistling wings . . .17 

Ah, what if the mind ..... 2 

A lark sprang up to greet the dawn . . . 181 

A little while before the fall was done . . . 341 

All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead . . 244 

All hail to the day when the Britons came over . . 147 

Among the fine old kings that reign . . . 215 

An ashen grey touched faint my night-dark room . . 279 

And no one saw, while it was dark .... 349 
And this is Louisburg, whose moss-grown ruin . . 144 

A perfect artist hath been here ; the scene . . ,40 

A rocky channel from the harbor led . . .111 

Around the world the fame is blown . . . 230 

Art thou not sweet. Oh world . . . . .210 

As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud . . 288 

A shell lies silent on a lonely shore .... 261 
A star leant down and laid a silver hand . . '77 

A stream of tender gladness .... 157 

As the light beyond draws nearer .... 200 
As the twilight's grey was swallowed . . . 118 

As time past onwards, day by day . . . .217 

At husking time the tassel fades . . . .156 

At the close of the day, when the year was a-dying . . 98 

At the forging of the Sword ..... 76 
At the postern gate of Day ..... 208 
Awake, my country, the hour is great with change . 296 

Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie . . . ,64 

A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways . . .192 

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm . .158 

Behind Jacques Carticr s hills the sun sinks low . 11 

Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools . . 30 

Behold, the maize fields set their pennons free . . 368 

Beshrew the coined gold ! — and so, take heed . . 141 

Birds that were grey in the green are black in the yellow 128 

Bite deep and wide, O A.xe, the tree . . -73 

Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea . . . 243 

Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes . . . 238 

Butterfly, Flutter by . . . . .68 

By cliffs grown grey, as nicn grow grey . . 346 



4o6 



Index of First Lines 



Canada, Canada, land of the maple 

City about whose brow the north wind blows 

"Close up in front, and steady, lads ! " brave Stewart cries 

" They're here" , 
" Cold," cried the wind on the hill 
Columbus came to thee and called thee new 
Come and let me make thee glad 
Come down from the heights, my bird. 
Come, happy morn, serene and fair 
Come hither. Sleep, from Chio'sisle 
Come, walk with the world and go down to the destitute 

homes of the poor 
Cradled within the arms of night 

Dark tresses made rich with all treasures 

Dead ! dead ! And now before 

Deserted nest, that on the leafless tree 

Did you see the snowy castle 

Down from the blue the sun has driven 

Down the long lanes of Arcadie 

Do you remember, dear, a night in June 

Draw nigh with reverence, Canada . 

Dreary, dreary, Fundy's mists are sweeping 

Enough ! the lie is ended. God only owns the land 
Eyes of blue and hair of gold 
Eyes that we look into — so 

Facing the ocean, guardian of our land 

Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep 

Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day 

Fancy many forms assumes . 

For three whole days across the sky 

From out the cold house of the north 

God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul 
God speaks, life beats within the brain 
Gone, brother, lover, son ! . 
Good Christmas bells, I pray you 
Greatest twain among the nations 

Hack and Hew were the sons of God 

Had I two loaves of bread — ay — ay ! 

Hail, first of the Spring 

Hail to the pride of the forest— hail ! 

Helot drink — nor spare the wine 

Here at the change of ways, the steel steed halts 

Here is the old church. Now I see it all 

Her gold hair fallen about her face . 

He sits at last among his peers 

He wandered down, an Orpheus wilder-souled 

He who but yesterday would roam 



Index of First Lines 



407 



He who would start and rise .... 

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, .... 

How beautiful she was, the little maiden 

How bold the Imagination and how strong . 

How fair thou art the poets long have known 

How thick about the window of my life 

Hushed is the voice of scorn .... 

I AM, and therefore these .... 

I ask not for Thy love, O Lord ; the days 

I awoke from the dreams of the night 

I came upon a drawer to-day 

I come, ye lovely wildwood groves 

" If Peepy had lived," the mother sighed 

If, pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead 

If you would see Venice as she is . 

I had a garden when I was a boy 

I have been wandering where the daisies grow 

I hear the bells at eventide .... 

I hear the wondrous lyre .... 

I know not what my heart has lost 

I know that death is God's interpreter 

I know thee not, O spirit fair 

I'll sing you a song of the sea 

I loiter here within the ancient town . 

I loved my Art, I loved it when the tide 

In a city of churches and chapels 

In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through 

In meadows deep with hay, I see 

In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free 

In shadowy calm the boat .... 

In sooth he was a mighty king 

In the glimmering light of the Old Regime . 

In the heart of a man ..... 

In the Rheingan standeth Aix 

In the silence of the morning, through the .softly rising mi 

I read on de paper nios' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee 

I rested on the breezy height . 

I sat within the temple of the heart . 

I see a schooner in the bay 

I shall not pass this way again ^ 

Is there a God, then, above us? 

I stood and saw the angel of the dawn 

I swing to the sunset land 

I swing to the land of morn . 

I talked about you. Dear, the other night 

It comes ! This strange bird from a distant clime 

It comforts me through all my days . 

I thought as I watched in the dawning dim . 

I thought of death beside the lonely sea 

It is enough that in this burdened time 

It is growing dark .... 



304 
370 
240 
281 
138 
377 
380 

278 

315 
96 
20 
232 
161 
219 

359 
no 

9 
326 

353 
261 
346 
184 
120 

33 
264 
202 

31 
367 
286 

351 
189 

25 
301 
106 
381 

lOI 

323 
320 

327 
382 

43 
206 

159 
159 
292 
236 

251 
265 

329 
264 
283 



4o8 



Index of First Lines 



It was one of those grand cathedrals . 
I watch the printer's clever hand 
I watch the ships by town and lea 
I will not tell thee why the land 

Joy came in youth as a humming-bird 

Last night, and there came a guest . 

Let other tongues in older lands 

Let us bury him here . 

Life gives us better than it takes away 

Life has two sovereign moments 

Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall 

Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees 

Like Israel's seer I come from out the earth , 

Like marble, nude, against the purple sky 

Like mists that round a mountain grey 

Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door 

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn 

Love built a crimson house 

Lover of man, if not of God, the Sea 

Love sayeth : Sing of me ! 

Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set 

May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June 

Merry mad-cap on the tree 

Methought the stream of Time had backward rolled 

Mildly through the mists of night 

Mother of Swords ! while the river runs 

My purest longings spring 

My sandalled feet are firm and fleet . 

Mysterious life ! we speak as if we knew 

Naked and shaggy, they herded at eve by the sound of the seas 

Nilus ! Nilus ! and before them rolled 

No flame of war was he, no flower of grace . 

Not in eyed, expectant gloom 

Not to be conquered by these headlong days 

Now along the solemn heights 

Now hath the summer reached her golden close 

Now the Fraser gleamed 

Now wherefore trembles still the string 

O, BELLA fior del mondo ! to-morrow 

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King . 

O brothers ! thro' how many lands . 

O covering grasses ! O unchanging trees 

O do you hear the merry waters falling 

O elder sister, though thou didst of yore 

O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable 

Of all the tiny race of Skye 

Oft I have met her .... 



Index of First Lines 



409 



PAGE 

O gifted son of our dear land and time . . . 288 
Oh, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the 

grass ....... 138 

Oh the shambling sea is a sexton old . . .46 

Oh, what could wake life that first sweet flame . . 286 
O, Love builds on the azure sea . . . -73 

O Love, can the tree lure the summer bird . . . 356 

O master-builder, blustering as you go . . . 377 

On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold . . 213 

Once more the robin flutes in glee .... 145 

Once ye were happy, once by many a shore . . . 169 

One by one they pass away ..... 243 

" Only a penny, Sir ! " ..... 280 

Only in dreams she appears to me .... 129 

On the crimson cloth ...... 3 

Open, my heart, the ruddy valves .... 131 

Ope your doors and take me in ... . 376 

O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold . . .36 

O rivers rolling to the sea ..... 297 

O ship incoming from the sea .... 325 

O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings . 262 

O tender love of long ago ..... 330 

O, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter . 344 

O Thou who hast beneath Thy hand . . . 309 

O Twenty, running through the wood . . . 140 

Our mother is the good green earth .... 372 

Out of the dreams that heap ..... 305 

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles . . 326 
O very, very far from our dull earth . . . .72 

Pale Melancholy, faithfully thou lov'st . . . 352 

Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble . . . 322 

Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile . . 109 

Quebec, the grey old city on the hill . .36 

Remote, upon the sunset shrine .... 194 

Ripple, ripple, ripple ...... 180 

Rome, Florence, Venice, — noble, fair and quaint 186 

" Saddle and mount and away " . . .23 

Sang one of England in his island home . . . 357 

Sans peur et sans reproche !— our lion-heart . .199 

See how the Morn awakes. Along the sky . . .132 

She died — as die the roses ..... 204 
She is so winsome and so wise . . . -35 

Shaper of breathing lives, and Lord of all above . 350 

Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms . . . .69 

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song . . . i 

Simon bent to his hissing saw . . -133 

Since I rose out of child-oblivion .... 265 
Sing a song of springtime ..... 205 
2 D 



4IO 



Index of First Lines 



Sing me a song of the great Dominion . . , 290 

Sleep, sleep imperious heart ! Sleep, fair and undefiled ! . 295 

Slowly rose the doedal Earth ..... 321 

Some glad thing comes to me .... 252 

Son of Britannia's isle ..... 361 
" Son of Light," I murmured lowly . , . .92 

So sat I yesterday, with weary eyes .... 163 

So tremulous the flame of thinking burns . . . 224 

Speed on, speed on, good Master .... 336 
Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars . . ,126 
Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth . . .43 

Still, in the light of morning grey .... 142 

Still, though the sun is setting .... 241 

" Summer is dead ! " — it was the wind that spake . . 142 

Sweet child of an April shower .... 231 
Swifter the flight ! Far, far and high . . .67 

Swift troopers twain ride side by side . . . 373 

Take not from me my lute ..... 104 

Take the mouldering dust ..... 247 

Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale . . . 205 

The air is still, the night is dark .... 247 

The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space . , 277 

The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair . , 382 

The brine is in our blood from days of yore . . , 142 
The broad round-shouldered giant Earth . . .81 

The chime of bells across the waking sky . . . 313 

The dark has passed and the chill Autumn morn . . 8 

The darkness brings no quiet here, the light . . 168 

The days begin to wane and evening lifts ... 6 

The dew is gleaming in the grass .... 169 

The dusky warriors stood in groups .... 182 

The dykes, half-bare, are lying in the bath . . . 137 

The earth is the cup of the sun .... 170 

The furrows of life Time is plowing .... 353 
The heart of Merrie England sang in thee . , .30 

Their very gods, it seems, we have forgot . . . 357 

The immortal spirit hath no bars . •. . . 335 

The mountains gather round thee as of yore . . 285 

Then sighed the wandering Angel sore . . . 369 
The ocean bursts in very wrath . . . .69 

The purple shadows, dreamingly .... 60 

There are no colors in God's heaven bent bow . . 81 

There came a day of showers .... 299 

There is a beauty at the goal of life .... 177 

There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world . . 384 

There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush . . 216 

The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau . . . 127 

There is no God ! if one should stand at noon . . 11 

There is rain upon the window .... 328 

There is the school-house ; there the lake, the lawn . 285 

The restless clock is ticking out .... 375 



Index of First Lines 



411 



The rivers that sweep to the sea 

There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas 

There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees 

There was a time on this fair continent 

The rowan tree grows by the tower foot 

These are the days that try us ; these the hours 

The sky had a grey, grey face 

The song unsung more sweet shall ring 

The sonnet is a diamond flashing round 

The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night 

The sun goes down, and over all 

The sun has gone down in liquid gold 

The tide flows in and out, and leaves . 

The twilight land toyed with the night 

The wild birds strangely call . 

They have a saying in the East 

They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell 

They journey sadly, slowly on 

This is the white winter day of his burial 

This Canada of ours .... 

This is the purple sea of ancient song 

This river of azure with many a weed in 

Those far-off fields, how fair they seem 

Thou askest not to know the creed 

Thou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by 

Through a Gethsemane of city streets 

"Tis dawn, but not such morning-tide 

'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway 

'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell . 

'Tis solemn darkness, the sublime of shade . 

'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf 

True comrade, we have tested life together , 

'Twas midnight. Darkness, like the glow of some funereal 

pall 

'Twas on a day, and in high radiant heaven . 

Under the ward of the Polar Star . 
Up by the idling reef-set bell . 
Upon the heights of Sillery one day . 

Vast, unrevealed, in silence and the night . 

Wanted, a stalwart man 

War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil 

We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain 

West wind blow from your prairie nest 

What reck we of the creeds of men ? — 

What shall withstand her? Who shall gainsay her? 

What went ye to the wilderness to see ? 

When early shades of evening close . 

Whence comes the charm that broods along the shore 

When God sends out His company to travel through the stars 



254 
331 
360 

233 
208 
128 

139 

70 

41 
186 

45 
97 
"3 
149 
207 
167 
365 
33 
51 
116 
146 
272 
118 
248 
188 
218 
123 
112 
224 
132 
322 
314 

256 
133 

269 

52 

163 

301 

282 

66 

234 

155 

43 

38 

162 

40 

290 

306 



412 



Index of First Lines 



When high above the busy street 

When ploughmen ridge the steamy brown . 

When the Sleepy Man comes with dust on his eyes 

When tree and bush are comfortless . 

Wliere are the men of my heart's desire 

Where does my sweetheart Baby go . 

Where the soft shadows fall . 

Where the world is grey and lone 

Where, where will be the birds that sing 

Whom would you choose? for, lo, the chief is dead 

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward 

Winged wonder of motion 

Within, a panic-stricken throng 

With folded wings of dusky light 

With fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud 

With slender arms outstretching in the sun . 

You ask for fame and power . 



PAGE 

364 

302 

31 
311 
226 

89 

347 

28 

187 

273 
180 
216 
345 
378 

41 



TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESI 




017 095 380 





